FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.  D.  D, 

BEQUEATHED   BY  HIM  TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


iX  A 


i> 


SONGS  OF  MANY  S 


1862-1874. 


BY 


/. 


OLIVER  WENDELL    HOLMES. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND   COMPANY, 
Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 

1875. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874, 
BY   JAMES   R.    OSGOOD    &   CO., 
in  the  OflBce  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


University  Press:  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


OPENma  THE  WINDOW. 

Thus  I  lift  the  sash,  so  long 
Shut  against  the  flight  of  song ; 
All  too  late  for  vain  excuse,  — 
Lo,  my  captive  rhymes  are  loose  ! 

Ehymes  that,  flitting  through  my  brain, 
Beat  against  my  window-pane, 
Some  with  gayly  colored  wings. 
Some,  alas  !  with  venomed  stings. 

Shall  they  bask  in  sunny  rays  1 
Shall  they  feed  on  sugared  praise  1 
Shall  they  stick  with  tangled  feet 
On  the  critic's  poisoned  sheet  ] 


iv  PROGRAMME. 

Are  the  outside  winds  too  rough  1 
Is  the  world  not  wide  enough  ? 
Go,  my  winged  verse,  and  try,  — 
Go,  like  Uncle  Toby's  fly ! 


PROGRAMME. 

Reader  —  gentle  —  if  so  be 
Such  still  live,  and  live  for  me, 
Will  it  please  you  to  be  told 
What  my  ten-score  pages  hold? 

Here  are  verses  that  in  spite 

Of  myself  I  needs  must  write, 

Like  the  wine  that  oozes  first 

When  the  unsqueezed  grapes  have  burst. 

Here  are  angry  lines,  "  too  hard  "  ! 
Says  the  soldier,  battle-scarred. 
Could  I  smile  his  scars  away 
I  would  blot  the  bitter  lay, 


PROGRAMME. 

Written  •with  a  knitted  brow, 
Read  with  placid  wonder  now. 
Throbbed  such  passion  in  my  heart  1 
—  Did  his  wounds  once  really  smart  1 

Here  are  varied  strains  that  sing 
All  the  changes  life  can  bring, 
Songs  when  joyous  friends  have  met, 
Songs  the  mourner's  tears  have  wet. 

See  the  banquet's  dead  bouquet, 
Fair  and  fragrant  in  its  day ; 
Do  they  read  the  self-same  lines,  — 
He  that  fasts  and  he  that  dines  1 

Year  by  year,  like  milestones  placed, 
Mark  the  record  Friendship  traced. 
Prisoned  in  the  walls  of  time 
Life  has  notched  itself  in  rhyme  : 

As  its  seasons  slid  along, 
Every  year  a  notch  of  song, 
From  the  June  of  long  ago, 
When  the  rose  was  full  in  blow. 


PROGRAMME. 

Till  the  scarlet  sage  has  come 
And  the  cold  chrysanthemum. 
Read,  but  not  to  praise  or  blame ; 
Are  not  all  our  hearts  the  same  1 

For  the  rest,  they  take  their  chance,  - 
Some  may  pay  a  passing  glance  ; 
Others,  —  well,  they  served  a  turn,  — 
Wherefore  written,  would  you  learn  1 

Not  for  glory,  not  for  pelf, 
Not,  be  sure,  to  please  myself. 
Not  for  any  meaner  ends,  — 
Always  "  by  request  of  friends." 

Here  's  the  cousin  of  a  king,  — 
Would  I  do  the  civil  thing  ] 
Here  's  the  first-bom  of  a  queen ; 
Here  's  a  slant-eyed  Mandarin. 

Would  I  polish  off  Japan  1 
Would  I  greet  this  famous  man, 
Prince  or  Prelate,  Sheik  or  Shah  1  — 
—  Figaro  9i  and  Figaro  la  ! 


PROGRAMME.  Vli 

Would  I  just  this  once  comply  ?  — 
So  they  teased  and  teased  till  I 
(Be  the  truth  at  once  confessed) 
Wavered  —  yielded  —  did  my  best. 

Turn  my  pages,  —  never  mind 
If  you  like  not  all  you  find  ; 
Think  not  all  the  grains  are  gold 
Sacramento's  sand-banks  hold. 

Every  kernel  has  its  shell, 
Every  chime  its  harshest  bell, 
Every  face  its  weariest  look, 
Every  shelf  its  emptiest  book. 

Every  field  its  leanest  sheaf, 
Every  book  its  dullest  leaf. 
Every  leaf  its  weakest  line,  — 
Shall  it  not  be  so  with  mine  ? 

Best  for  worst  shall  make  amends, 
Find  us,  keep  us,  leave  us  friends 
Till,  perchance,  we  meet  again. 
Benedicite.  —  Amen ! 

October  7,  1874. 


CONTENTS 


IN  THE  QUIET  DAYS.. 

Paox 

An  Old-Year  Song ►       .  I 

Bill  and  Joe 4 

Dorothy  Q 7" 

The  Organ-Blower .  11 

Homesick  in  Heaven 15, 

Fantasia 20- 

Aunt  Tabitha        .        .' 22: 

At  the  Pantomime .  24 

After  the  Fire 28- 

A  Ballad  of  the  Boston  Tea-Party       ...  31 

Epilogue  to  the  Breakfast-Table  Series-.        .        .  36 

Bearing  the  Snow-Line 40- 

IN  WAK  time: 

To  Canaan 41 

"Thus   saith    the    Lord,    I    offer    thee    Three 

Things" 44 

"Choose  you  this  Day  whom  ye  will  serve"      .  46 

Never  or  Now  ! 49 


X  CONTENTS. 

The  Last  ChapwGE 51 

One  Country 53 

Sherman  's  in  Savannah  !         .....  55 

God  save  the  Flag  ! 57 

Hymn  after  the  Emancipation  Proclamation       .  59 

Hymn  for  the  Fair  at  Chicago 61 

SONGS   OF  WELCOME   AND  FAREWELL. 

America  to  Eussia 63 

Welcome  to  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis  .  .  .66 
At  the  Banquet  to  the  Grand  Duke  AlexIs  .  68 
At  the  Banquet  to  the  Chinese  Embassy  .  .  71 
At  the  Banquet  to  the  Japanese  Embassy    .        .        74 

Bryant's  Seventieth  Birthday 78 

At  a  Dinner  to  General  Grant  ....  83 
At  a  Dinner  to  Admiral  Farragut    .        .        .        .87 

A  Toast  to  Wilkie  Collins 90 

To  H.  W.  Longfellow 92 

To  Christian  Gottfried  Ehrenberg       ...        95 

MEMORIAL   VERSES. 

For  the   Services   in    Memory   of  Abraham    Lin- 
coln          98 

For  the  Commemoration  Services  at  Cambridge  100 

Edward  Everett 105 

Shakespeare 109 

In  Memory  of  John  and  Robert  Ware     .        .        .113 

Humboldt's  Birthday 116 


CONTENTS.  XI 

Poem  at  the  Dedication   of  the  Halleck  ]\Ioxf- 

MENT 120 

Hymn  for  the  Laying  of  the  Corner-Stone  of  Har- 
vard Memorial  Hall,  Cambridge        .        .        .123 

Hymn  for  the  Dedication  of  Memorial  Hall  at 

Cambridge 125 

Hymn  at  the  Funeral  of  Charles  Sumner.        .        127 


EHYMES  OF  AN  HOUE. 

Address  for  the  Opening  of  the   Fifth   Avenue 

Theatre,  New  York 129 

Rip  Yan  Winkle,  M.  D 137 

Chanson  without  Music 151 

For  the  Centennial  Dinner  of  the  Proprietors  of 

Boston  Pier 154 

A  Poem  served  to  Order 158 

The  Fountain  of  Youth 162 

A  Hymn  of  Peace 165 


FOR  MEETINGS  OF  THE  CLASS   OF  1829. 

Our  Classmate,  F.  W.  C.    1864       ....  167 

Our  Oldest  Friend.     1865 171 

My  Annual.     1866 174 

All  Here.     1867 178 

Once  More.     1868 182 

The  Old  Cruiser.     1869 187 

Hymn  for  the  Class-Meeting.    1869     .        .        .  192 

Even-Song.    1870 194 


±U  CONTENTS. 

The  smiling  Listener.    1871 200 

Our  Sweet  Singer.     1872 205 

H.  C.  M.     H.  S.    J.  K.  W.     1873     ....  208 

"What  I  have  come  for.    1873 211 

Our  Banker.    1874 213 


IN  THE  QUIET  DAYS. 


Ali  OLD-YEAE  SONG. 

As  through  the  forest,  disarrayed 

By  chill  Xoveraber,  late  I  strayed,, 

A  lonely  minstrel  of  the  wood 

Was  singing  to  the  solitude  : 

I  loved  thy  music,  thus  I  said, 

When  o'er  thy  perch  the  leaves  were  spread ;; 

Sweet  was  thy  song,  but  sweeter  now 

Thy  carol  on  the  leafless  bough. 

Sing,  little  bird  !  thy  note  shall  cheer 

The  sadness  of  the  dying  year. 

When  violets  pranked  the  turf  with  blue' 
And  morning  filled  their  cups  with  dew,. 
Thy  slender  voice  with  rippling  trill 
The  budding  April  bowers  would  fill, 

1  A 


AN  OLD-YEAR  SONG. 

Nor  passed  its  joyous  tones  away 
When  April  rounded  into  May  : 
Thy  life  shall  hail  no  second  dawn,  — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  spring  is  gone. 

And  I  remember  —  well-a-day  !  — 
Thy  full-blown  summer  roundelay, 
As  when  behind  a  broidered  screen 
Some  holy  maiden  sings  unseen  : 
With  answering  notes  the  woodland  rung, 
And  every  tree-top  found  a  tongue. 
How  deep  the  shade  !  the  groves  how  fair  ! 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  woods  are  bare. 

The  summer's  throbbing  chant  is  done 
And  mute  the  choral  antiphon  ; 
The  birds  have  left  the  shivering  pines 
To  flit  among  the  trellised  vines, 
Or  fan  the  air  with  scented  plumes 
Amid  the  love-sick  orange-blooms, 
And  thou  art  here  alone,  —  alone,  — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  rest  have  flown. 

The  snow  has  capped  yon  distant  hill, 
At  morn  the  running  brook  was  still, 


AN  OLD-YEAR  SONG. 

iP'rom  driven  herds  the  clouds  that  rise 
Are  hke  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  ; 
Erelong  the  frozen  sod  shall  mock 
The  ploughshare,  changed  to  stubborn  rock, 
The  brawling  streams  shall  soon  be  dumb,  — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  the  frosts  have  come. 

Fast,  fast  the  lengthening  shadows  creep, 
The  songless  fowls  are  half  asleep, 
The  air  gTOws  chill,  the  setting  sun 
May  leave  thee  ere  thy  song  is  done, 
The  pulse  that  warms  thy  breast  grow  cold, 
Thy  secret  die  with  thee,  untold  : 
The  lingering  sunset  still  is  bright,- — 
Sing,  little  bird  !  't  will  soon  be  night. 

1874. 


BILL  AND  JOE. 

Come,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  from  days  gone  by,  — 
The  shining  days  when  life  was  new, 
And  all  was  bright  with  morning  dew,  — 
The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
When  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail 
Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail. 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tam  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare  ; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill. 

You  've  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 
And  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes. 
With  HON.  and  L  L.  D. 
In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see,  — 


BILL  AND  JOE. 

Your  fist,  old  fellow  !  off  they  go  !  — 
How  are  you,  Bill  1     How  are  you,  Joe  ] 

You  've  worn  the  judge's  ermined  robe  ; 
You  've  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe  ; 
You  've  sung  mankmd  a  deathless  strain  ; 
You  've  made  the  dead  past  live  again  : 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will. 
But  you  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill. 

The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say 
"  See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gi'ay,  — 
They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens  ! 
Mad,  poor  old  boys  !     That 's  what  it  means,' 
And  shake  their  heads  ;  they  little  know 
The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe  !  — 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side  ; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes,  — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame  1 
A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame  ; 


BILL  AND  JOE. 

A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust, 
That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust ; 
A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 
Which  dust  was  Bill  and  which  was  Joe  ] 

The  weary  idol  takes  his  stand. 

Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand, 

While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go,  — 

How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show  ! 

Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  thrill ;  — 

'T  is  poor  old  Joe's  "  God  bless  you.  Bill ! " 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears, 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long. 
Just  whispering  of  the  world  below 
Where  this  was  Bill,  and  that  was  Joe  1 

No  matter ;  while  our  home  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear  ; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say  1 
Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
Hicjacet  Joe.     Hicjacet  Bill. 
1868. 


BOEOTHY  Q. 

A   FAillLY   PORTRAIT. 

Grandmother's  mother  :  her  age,  I  guess, 
Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less ; 
Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air. 
Smooth,  square  forehead  with  uprolled  hair, 
Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed, 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist, 
Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade,  — 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 

Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene. 

Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view,  — 

Look  !  there  's  a  rent  the  light  shines  through, 

Dark  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust,  — 

That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-thrust ! 


DOROTHY  Q. 

Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 

"Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell,  — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well ; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed, 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been  pressed ; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white, 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn,  — 
Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born  ! 
Ay  !  since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her  name  ; 
And  still  to  the  three-hilled  rebel  town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown, 
For  many  a  civic  wreatli  they  won. 
The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired  son. 

0  Damsel  Dorothy  !  Dorothy  Q. ! 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you ; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save  to  daughter  or  son  might  bring,  -r 


DOROTHY  Q. 

All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand, 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land  ; 
Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 
And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and  life  ! 

What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No, 

When  forth  the  tremulous  question  came 

That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman  name, 

And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 

The  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's  thrill  ? 

Should  I  be  I,  or  would  it  be 

One  tenth  another,  to  nine  tenths  me  % 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  Yes  : 

Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less  ; 

But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 

Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and  blast, 

And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 

That  lives  in  the  babblin<?  air  so  lono^  ! 

There  were  tones  in  the  voice  that  whispered  then 

You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men. 

0  lady  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  —  and  here  we  are, 
1* 


10  DOROTHY  Q. 

Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone,  — 
Edward's  and  Dorothy's  —  all  their  own,  — 
A  goodly  record  for  Time  to  show 
Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago  !  — 
Shall  I  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive 
For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me  live  1 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid ! 
I  will  heal  the  stab  of  the  Red-Coat's  blade. 
And  freshen  the  gold  of  the  tarnished  frame, 
And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  household  name ; 
So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 
As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's  light, 
And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 
Through  a  second  youth  of  a  hundred  years. 

1871. 


THE  OEGAN-BLOWEK. 

Devoutest  of  my  Sunday  friends, 

The  patient  Organ-blower  bends ; 

I  see  his  figure  sink  and  rise, 

(Forgive  me,  Heaven,  my  wandering  eyes !) 

A  moment  lost,  the  next  half  seen. 

His  head  above  the  scanty  screen, 

Still  measuring  out  his  deep  salaams 

Through  quavering  hymns  and  panting  psalms. 

No  priest  that  prays  in  gilded  stole, 
To  save  a  rich  man's  mortgaged  soul ; 
No  sister,  fresh  from  holy  vows. 
So  humbly  stoops,  so  meekly  bows  ; 
His  large  obeisance  puts  to  shame 
The  proudest  genuflecting  dame, 
"Whose  Easter  bonnet  low  descends 
"With  all  the  grace  devotion  lends. 


12  THE   OEG AX-BLOWER 

0  brother  with  the  supple  spine, 
How  much  we  owe  those  bows  of  thine  ! 
Without  thine  arm  to  lend  the  breeze, 
How  vain  the  finger  on  the  keys  ! 
Though  all  unmatched  the  player's  skill, 
Those  thousand  throats  were  dumb  and  still 
Another's  art  may  shape  the  tone. 
The  breath  that  fills  it  is  thine  own. 

Six  days  the  silent  Memnon  waits 
Behind  his  temple's  folded  gates  ; 
But  when  the  seventh  day's  sunshine  falls 
Throuofh  rainbowed  windows  on  the  walls, 
He  breathes,  he  sings,  he  shouts,  he  fills 
The  quivering  air  with  rapturous  thrills  j 
The  roof  resounds,  the  pillars  shake, 
And  all  the  slumbering  echoes  wake  ! 

The  Preacher  from  the  Bible-text 
With  weary  words  my  soul  has  vexed 
(Some  stranger,  fumbling  far  astray 
To  find  the  lesson  for  the  day) ; 
He  tells  us  truths  too  plainly  true. 
And  reads  the  service  all  askew,  — 


THE   ORGAN-BLOWER.  13 

Why,  why  the  — mischief —  can't  he  look 
Beforehand  in  the  service-book  ] 

But  thou,  with  decent  mien  and  face, 
Art  always  ready  in  thy  place  ; 
Thy  strenuous  blast,  whate'er  the  tune, 
As  steady  as  the  strong  monsoon  ; 
Thy  only  dread  a  leathery  creak, 
Or  small  residual  extra  squeak, 
To  send  along  the  shadowy  aisles 
A  sunlit  wave  of  dimpled  smiles. 

Not  all  the  preaching,  0  ray  friend, 
Comes  from  the  church's  pulpit  end  ! 
Not  all  that  bend  the  knee  and  bow 
Yield  service  half  so  true  as  thou  ! 
One  simple  task  performed  aright. 
With  slender  skill,  but  all  thy  might, 
Where  honest  labor  does  its  best, 
And  leaves  the  player  all  the  rest. 

This  many-diapasoned  maze, 
Through  which  the  breath  of  being  strays, 
Whose  music  makes  our  earth  divine, 
Has  work  for  mortal  hands  like  mine. 


14  THE  ORGAN-BLOWER. 

My  duty  lies  before  me.     Lo, 
The  lever  there  !     Take  hold  and  blow  ! 
And  He  whose  hand  is  on  the  keys 
Will  play  the  tune  as  He  shall  please. 

1872. 


HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN. 

FROM   "THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE." 
THE   DIVINE   VOICE. 

Go  seek  thine  earth-born  sisters,  —  thus  the  Voice 
That  all  obey,  —  the  sad  and  silent  three ; 

These  only,  Tvhile  the  hosts  of  Heaven  rejoice, 
Smile  never  :  ask  them  what  their  sorrows  be  : 

And  when  the  secret  of  their  griefs  they  tell, 
Look  on  them  with  thy  mild,  half-human  eyes ; 

Say  what  thou  wast  on  earth ;  thou  knowest  well ; 
So  shall  they  cease  from  unavailing  sighs. 

THE   ANGEL. 

— Why  thus,  apart, — the  swift-winged  herald  spake,- 
Sit  ye  with  silent  lips  and  unstrung  lyres 

While  the  trisagion's  blending  chords  awake 
In  shouts  of  joy  from  all  the  heavenly  choirs  *? 


16  HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN. 

THE   FIKST   SPIRIT. 

—  Chide  not  thy  sisters,  —  thus  the  answer  came  j  — 
Children  of  earth,  our  half-weaned  nature  clings 

To  earth's  fond  memories,  and  her  whispered  name 
Untunes  our  quivering  lips,  our  saddened  strings ; 

For  there  we  loved,  and  where  we  love  is  home, 
Home  that  our  feet  may  leave,  but  not  our  hearts. 

Though  o'er  us  shine  the  jasper-lighted  dome  :  — 
The  chain  may  lengthen,  but  it  never  parts  ! 

Sometimes  a  sunlit  sphere  comes  rolling  by, 
And  then  we  softly  whisper,  —  can  it  he  ? 

And  leaning  toward  the  silvery  orb,  we  try 
To  hear  the  music  of  its  murmuring  sea ; 

To  catch,  perchance,  some  flashing  glimpse  of  green, 
Or  breathe  some  wild- wood  fragrance,  wafted  through 

The  opening  gates  of  pearl,  that  fold  between 
The  Winding  splendors  and  the  changeless  blue. 

THE   ANGEL. 

—  Nay,  sister,  nay  !  a  single  healing  leaf 

Plucked  from  the  bough  of  yon  twelve-fruited  tree, 


HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN.  17 

Would  soothe  such  anguish,  —  deeper  stabbing  grief 
Has  pierced  thy  throbbing  heart  — 

THE   FIKST   SPIRIT. 

—  Ah,,  woe-  is  me  ! 

I  from  my  clinging  babe  was  rudely  torn ; 

His  tender  lips  a  loveless  bosom  pressed;. 
Can  I  forget  him  in  my  life  new  born  1 

0  that  my  darhng  lay  upon  my  breast  I 

THE  AXGEL. 

—  And  thou  1  — 

THE  SECOND  SPIRIT. 

I  was  a  fair  and  youthful  bride. 
The  kiss  of  love  still  burns  upon  my  cheek, 
He  whom  I  worshipped,  ever  at  my  side,  — 
Him  through  the  spirit  realm  in  vain  I  seek. 

Sweet  faces  turn  their  beaming  eyes  on  mine ; 

Ah  !  not  in  these  the  wished-for  look  I  read ; 
StiU  for  that  one  dear  human  smile  I  pine ; 

Thou  and  none  other  I  —  is  the  lover's  creed. 

B 


18  HOMESICK  IN  HEAVEN. 

THE  ANGEL. 

—  And  whence  thy  sadness  in  a  world  of  bliss 
Where  never  parting  comes,  nor  mourner's  tear  1 

Art  thou,  too,  dreaming  of  a  mortal's  kiss 
Amid  the  seraphs  of  the  heavenly  sphere  ] 

THE   THIRD    SPIRIT. 

—  Nay,  tax  not  me  with  passion's  wasting  fire ; 
When  the  swift  message  set  my  spirit  free, 

Blind,  helpless,  lone,  I  left  my  gray-haired  sire ; 
My  friends  were  many,  he  had  none  save  me. 

I  left  him,  orphaned,  in  the  starless  night ; 

Alas,  for  him  no  cheerful  morning's  dawn ! 
I  wear  the  ransomed  spirit's  robe  of  white, 

Yet  still  I  hear  him  moaning,  She  is  gone  ! 

THE   ANGEL. 

—  Ye  know  me  not,  sweet  sisters  %  —  All  in  vain 
Ye  seek  your  lost  ones  in  the  shapes  they  wore ; 

The  flower  once  opened  may  not  bnd  again. 
The  fruit  once  fallen  finds  the  stem  no  more. 

Child,  lover,  sire,  —  yea,  all  things  loved  below,  — 
Fair  pictures  damasked  on  a  vapor's  fold,  — 


HOMESICK  m  HEAVEN.  19 

Fade  like  the  roseate  flush,  the  golden  glow, 
When  the  bright  curtain  of  the  day  is  rolled. 

/  was  the  babe  that  slumbered  on  thj/  breast. 

—  And,  sister,  mine  the  lips  that  called  thee  bride. 
—  Mine  were  the  silvered  locks  tk?/  hand  caressed. 

That  faithful  hand,  my  faltering  footstep's  guide  ! 

Each  changing  form,  frail  vesture  of  decay. 
The  soul  unclad  forgets  it  once  hath  worn. 

Stained  with  the  travel  of  the  weary  day, 

And  shamed  with  rents  from  every  wayside  thorn. 

To  lie,  an  infant,  in  thy  fond  embrace,  — 

To  come  with  love's  wann  kisses  back  to  thee,  — 

To  show  thi7ie  eyes  thy  gray-haired  father's  face, 
Not  Heaven  itself  could  grant ;  this  may  not  be  ! 

Then  spread  your  folded  win^s,  and  leave  to  earth 
The  dust  once  breathing  ye  have  mourned  so  long, 

Till  Love,  new  risen,  owns  his  heavenly  birth. 
And  sorrow's  discords  sweeten  into  song  ! 
1872. 


FANTASIA. 

THE   "-SOUNG  girl's"   POEM. 
PEOM  "the  poet  at  THE  BBEAKFAST-TABLE.* 

Kiss  mine  eyelids,  beauteous  Morn, 
Blushing  into  life  new-bom  ! 
Lend  me  violets  for  my  hair, 
And  thy  russet  robe  to  wear, 
And  thy  ring  of  rosiest  hue 
Set  in  drops  of  diamond  dew ! 

Kiss  my  cheek,  thou  noontide  ray, 
From  my  Love  so  far  away ! 
Let  thy  splendor  streaming  down 
Turn  its  pallid  lilies  brown. 
Till  its  darkening  shades  reveal 
Where  his  passion  pressed  its  seal ! 


FANTASIA.  21 

Kiss  my  lips,  thou  Lord  of  light, 
Kiss  my  lips  a  soft  good  night ! 
Westward  sinks  thy  golden  car  j 
Leave  me  but  the  evening  star, 
And  my  solace  that  shall  be, 
Borrowing  all  its  light  from  thee  ! 
1872. 


AUNT  TABITHA. 

THE  "  YOUNG   GIRL's  "   POEM. 
FROM  "the  poet  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE." 

Whatever  I  do,  and  whatever  I  say, 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  that  is  n't  the  way ; 
When  she  was  a  girl  (forty  summers  ago) 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  never  did  so. 

Dear  Aunt !     If  I  only  would  take  her  advice  ! 
But  I  like  my  own  way,  and  I  find  it  so  nice  ! 
And  besides,  I  forget  half  the  things  I  am  told ; 
But  they  all  will  come  back  to  me  —  when  I  am  old. 

If  a  youth  passes  by,  it  may  happen,  no  doubt, 
He  may  chance  to  look  in  as  I  chance  to  look  out ; 
She  would  never  endure  an  impertinent  stare,  — 
It  is  horrid,  she  says,  and  I  must  n't  sit  there. 


AUNT  TABITHA.  23 

A  walk  in  the  moonlight  has  pleasures,  I  own, 
But  it  is  n't  quite  safe  to  be  walking  alone ; 
So  I  take  a  lad's  arm,  — just  for  safety,  you  know,  — 
But  Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  did  n't  do  so. 

How  wicked  we  are,  and  how  good  they  were  then ! 
They  kept  at  arm's  length  those  detestable  men ; 
What  an  era  of  virtue  she  lived  in  !  —  But  stay  — 
Were  the  men  all  such  rogues  in  Aunt  Tabitha's  day  1 

If  the  men  were  so  wicked,  I  '11  ask  my  papa 
How  he  dared  to  propose  to  my  darling  mamma ; 
Was   he   like   the   rest  of  them  %     Goodness  !     Who 

knows  *? 
And  what  shall  /  say,  if  a  wretch  should  propose  1 

I  am  thinking  if  Aunt  knew  so  little  of  sin. 
What  a  wonder  Aunt  Tabitha's  aunt  must  have  been  ! 
And  her  grand-aunt — it  scares  me — how  shockingly  sad 
That  we  girls  of  to-day  are  so  frightfully  bad  ! 

A  martyr  will  save  us,  and  nothing  else  can ; 

Let  me  perish  —  to  rescue  some  wretched  young  man  ! 

Though  when  to  the  altar  a  victim  I  go, 

Aunt  Tabitha  '11  tell  me  she  never  did  so  ! 

1872. 


AT  THE  PANTOMIME. 

The  house  was  crammed  from  roof  to  floor, 
Heads  piled  on  heads  at  every  door ; 
Half  dead  with  August's  seething  heat 
I  crowded  on  and  found  my  seat, 
My  patience  slightly  out  of  joint, 
My  temper  short  of  boiling-point, 
Not  quite  at  Hate  manTcind  as  such, 
Nor  yet  at  Love  them  overmuch. 

Amidst  the  throng  the  pageant  drew 
Were  gathered  Hebrews  not  a  few, 
Black-bearded,  swarthy,  —  at  their  side 
Dark,  jewelled  women,  orient-eyed  ; 
If  scarce  a  Christian  hopes  for  gi-ace 
That  crowds  one  in  his  narrow  place 


AT  THE  PANTOMIME.  25 

What  will  the  savage  victim  do 
Whose  ribs  are  kneaded  by  a  Jew  1 

Next  on  my  left  a  breathing  form 
Wedged  up  against  me,  close  and  warm ; 
The  beak  that  crowned  the  bistred  face 
Betrayed  the  mould  of  Abraham's  race,  — 
That  coal-black  hair,  that  smoke-brown  hue, — 
Ah,  cursed,  unbelieving  Jew  ! 
I  started,  shuddering,  to  the  right, 
And  squeezed  —  a  second  Israelite  ! 

Then  woke  the  evil  brood  of  rage 
That  slumber,  tongueless,  in  their  cage; 
I  stabbed  in  turn  with  silent  oaths 
The  hook-nosed  kite  of  carrion  clothes, 
The  snaky  usurer,  him  that  crawls 
And  cheats  beneath  the  golden  balls, 
Moses  and  Levi,  all  the  horde, 
Spawn  of  the  race  that  slew  its  Lord. 

Up  came  their  murderous  deeds  of  old, 
The  grisly  story  Chaucer  told. 
And  many  an  ugly  tale  beside 
Of  children  caught  and  crucified  ; 
2 


26  AT  THE  PANTOMIME. 

I  heard  the  ducat-sweating  thieves 
Beneath  the  Ghetto's  slouching  eaves, 
And,  thrust  beyond  the  tented  green, 
The  lepers  cry,  "  Unclean  !     Unclean  ! " 

The  show  went  on,  but,  ill  at  ease. 

My  sullen  eye  it  could  not  please, 

In  vain  my  conscience  whispered,  "  Shame  ! 

Who  but  their  Maker  is  to  blame  ] " 

I  thought  of  Judas  and  his  bribe, 

And  steeled  my  soul  against  their  tribe  : 

My  neighbors  stirred  ;  I  looked  again 

Full  on  the  younger  of  the  twain. 

A  fresh  young  cheek  whose  olive  hue 
The  mantling  blood  shows  faintly  through ; 
Locks  dark  as  midnight,  that  divide 
And  shade  the  neck  on  either  side  ; 
Soft,  gentle,  loving  eyes  that  gleam 
Clear  as  a  starlit  mountain  stream ;  — 
So  looked  that  other  child  of  Shem, 
The  Maiden's  Boy  of  Bethlehem ! 

—  And  thou  couldst  scorn  the  peerless  blood 
That  flows  unmingled  from  the  Flood, 


AT  THE  PANTOMIME.  27 

Thj  scutcheon  spotted  with  the  stains 
Of  Norman  thieves  and  pirate  Danes  ! 
The  New  World's  foundling,  in  thy  pride 
Scowl  on  the  Hebrew  at  thy  side, 
And  lo  !  the  very  semblance  there 
The  Lord  of  Glory  deigned  to  wear  ! 

I  see  that  radiant  image  rise, 
The  flowing  hair,  the  pitying  eyes, 
The  faintly  crimsoned  cheek  that  shows 
The  blush  of  Sharon's  opening  rose,  — 
Thy  hands  would  clasp  his  hallowed  feet 
Whose  brethren  soil  thy  Christian  seat. 
Thy  lips  would  press  his  garment's  hem 
That  curl  in  wrathful  scorn  for  them ! 

A  sudden  mist,  a  watery  screen. 
Dropped  like  a  veil  before  the  scene ; 
The  shadow  floated  from  my  soul, 
And  to  my  lips  a  whisper  stole,  — 
"  Thy  prophets  caught  the  Spirit's  flame. 
From  thee  the  Son  of  Mary  came, 
With  thee  the  Father  deigned  to  dwell,  — 
Peace  be  upon  thee,  Israel !  " 
i8  — .    Rewritten  1874. 


AFTEK  THE    FIEE. 


While  far  along  the  eastern  sky 

I  saw  the  flags  of  Havoc  fly, 

As  if  his  forces  would  assault 

The  sovereign  of -the  starry  vault 

And  hurl  Him  back  the  burning  rain 

That  seared  the  cities  of  the  plain, 

I  read  as  on  a  crimson  page 

The  words  of  Israel's  sceptred  sage  :  — 

For  riches  make  them  wings^  and  they 
Do  as  an  eagle  fly  away. 

0  vision  of  that  sleepless  night, 
What  hue  shall  paint  the  mocking  light 
That  burned  and  stained  the  orient  skies 
Where  peaceful  morning  loves  to  rise. 


AFTER  THE  FIRE.  29 

As  if  the  sun  had  lost  his  way 
And  dawned  to  make  a  second  day,  — t- 
Above  how  red  with  fiery  glow, 
How  dark  to  those  it  woke  below  ! 

On  roof  and  wall,  on  dome  and  spire. 
Flashed  the  false  jewels  of  the  fire  ; 
Girt  with  her  belt  of  glittering  panes. 
And  crowned  with  starry-gleaming  vanes. 
Our  northern  queen  in  glory  shone 
With  new-bom  splendors  not  her  own, 
And  stood,  transfigured  in  our  eyes, 
A  victim  decked  for  sacrifice  ! 

The  cloud  still  hovers  overhead, 

And  still  the  midnight  sky  is  red  ; 

As  the  lost  wanderer  strays  alone 

To  seek  the  place  he  called  his  own, 

His  devious  footprints  sadly  tell 

How  changed  the  pathways  known  so  well ; 

The  scene,  how  new  !     The  tale,  how  old 

Ere  yet  the  ashes  have  grown  cold  ! 

Again  I  read  the  words  that  came 
Writ  in  the  rubric  of  the  flame  : 


30  AFTER  THE   FIRE. 

Howe'er  we  trust  to  mortal  things, 
Each  hath  its  pair  of  folded  wings  : 
Though  long  their  terrors  rest  unspread, 
Their  fatal  plumes  are  never  shed  ; 
At  last,  at  last,  they  stretch  in  flight, 
And  blot  the  day  and  blast  the  night ! 

Hope,  only  Hope,  of  all  that  clings 
Around  us,  never  spreads  her  wings ; 
Love,  though  he  break  his  earthly  chain, 
Still  whispers  he  will  come  again ; 
But  Faith  that  soars  to  seek  the  sky 
Shall  teach  our  half-fledged  souls  to  fly. 
And  find,  beyond  the  smoke  and  flame. 
The  cloudless  azure  whence  they  came  1 
1872. 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOSTON  TEA-PAETY, 

No  !  never  such  a  draught  was  poured 

Since  Hebe  served  with  nectar 
The  bright  Olympians  and  their  Lord, 

Her  over-kind  protector,  — 
Since  Father  Noah  squeezed  the  grape 

And  took  to  such  behaving 
As  would  have  shamed  our  grandsire  ape 

Before  the  days  of  shaving,  — 
No !  ne'er  was  mingled  such  a  draught 

In  palace,  hall,  or  arbor, 
As  freemen  brewed  and  tyrants  quaffed 

That  night  in  Boston  Harbor  ! 
It  kept  King  George  so  long  awake 

His  brain  at  last  got  addled, 
It  made  the  nerves  of  Britain  shake, 

With  seven-score  millions  saddled ; 


32         A  BALLAD   OF  THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY. 

Before  that  bitter  cup  was  drained, 

Amid  the  roar  of  cannon, 
The  Western  war-cloud's  crimson  stained 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon ; 
Full  many  a  six-foot  grenadier 

The  flattened  grass  had  measured, 
And  many  a  mother  many  a  year 

Her  tearful  memories  treasured  ; 
Fast  spread  the  tempest's  darkening  pall, 

The  mighty  realms  were  troubled, 
The  storm  broke  loose,  but  first  of  all 

The  Boston  teapot  bubbled  ! 

An  evening  party,  —  only  that, 

No  formal  invitation, 
No  gold-laced  coat,  no  stiff  cravat, 

No  feast  in  contemplation. 
No  silk-robed  dames,  no  fiddling  band, 

No  flowers,  no  songs,  no  dancing,  — 
A  tribe  of  Red  men,  axe  in  hand,  — 

Behold  the  guests  advancing  ! 
How  fast  the  stragglers  join  the  throng, 

From  stall  and  workshop  gathered  ! 
The  lively  barber  skips  along 

And  leaves  a  chin  half-lathered ; 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY.         33 

The  smith  has  flung  his  hammer  down,  — 

The  horseshoe  still  is  glowing ; 
The  truant  tapster  at  the  Crown 

Has  left  a  beer-cask  flowing  ; 
The  cooper's  boys  have  dropped  the  ad^ze^ 

And  trot  behind  their  master ; 
Up  run  the  tarry  ship-yard  lads,  — 

The  crowd  is  hurrying  faster,  — 
Out  from  the  Millpond's  purlieus  gush. 

The  streams  of  white-faced  mill'ersj 
And  down  their  slippery  alleys  rush 

The  lusty  young  Fort-Hillers ;. 
The  ropewalk  lends  its  'prentice  crew,. — 

The  tories  seize  the  omen  r 
"  Ay,  boys,  you  '11  soon  have  work  to  do 

For  England's  rebel  foemen, 
*  King  Hancock,'  Adams,  and  their  gang, 

That  fire  the  mob  with  treason,, — 
When  these  we  shoot  and  those  we  hang 

The  town  will  come  to  reason." 

On  —  on  to  where  the  tea-ships  ride  ! 

And  now  their  ranks  are  forming,  — 
A  rush,  and  up  the  Dartmouth's  side 

The  Mohawk  band  is  swarming ! 

2*  c 


34         A  BALLAD   OF   THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY. 

See  the  fierce  natives  !     AVhat  a  glimpse 

Of  paint  and  fur  and  feather, 
As  all  at  once  the  full-grown  imps 

Light  on  the  deck  together  ! 
A  scarf  the  pigtail's  secret  keeps, 

A  blanket  hides  the  breeches,  — 
And  out  the  cursed  cargo  leaps, 

And  overboard  it  pitches  ! 

0  woman,  at  the  evening  board 

So  gracious,  sweet,  and  purring, 
So  happy  while  the  tea  is  poured. 

So  blest  while  spoons  are  stirring, 
What  martyr  can  compare  with  thee. 

The  mother,  wife,  or  daughter. 
That  night,  instead  of  best  Bohea, 

Condemned  to  milk  and  water  ! 

Ah,  little  dreams  the  quiet  dame 

Who  plies  with  rock  and  spindle 
The  patient  flax,  how  great  a  flame 

Yon  little  spark  shall  kindle ! 
The  lurid  morning  shall  reveal 

A  fire  no  king  can  smother 
Where  British  flint  and  Boston  steel 

Have  clashed  against  each  other! 


A  BALLAD   OF  THE  BOSTON   TEA-PARTY.         35 

Old  charters  shrivel  in  its  track, 

His  Worship's  bench  has  crumbled, 
It  climbs  and  clasps  the  union-jack,  — 

Its  blazoned  pomp  is  humbled, 
The  flags  go  down  on  land  and  sea 

Like  corn  before  the  reapers ; 
So  burned  the  fire  that  brewed  the  tea 

That  Boston  served  her  keepers  ! 

The  waves  that  wrought  a  century's  wreck 

Have  rolled  o'er  whig  and  tory,  — 
The  Mohawks  on  the  Dartmouth's  deck 

Still  live  in  song  and  story, 
The  waters  in  the  rebel  bay 

Have  kept  the  tea-leaf  savor,  — 
Our  old  North-Enders  in  their  spray 

Still  taste  a  Hyson  flavor ; 
And  Freedom's  teacup  still  o'erflows 

With  ever  fresh  libations, 
To  cheat  of  slumber  all  her  foes 

And  cheer  the  wakening  nations  ! 

1874. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  BEEAKFAST-TABLE  SEEIES. 

AUTOCRAT  —  PROFESSOR  —  POET. 

AT  A  BOOKSTORE. 

^71710  Domini  1973. 

A  CRAZY  bookcase,  placed  before 
A  low-price  dealer's  open  door ; 
Therein  arrayed  in  broken  rows 
A  ragged  crew  of  rhyme  and  prose, 
The  homeless  vagrants,  waifs  and  strays 
Whose  low  estate  this  line  betrays 
(Set  forth  the  lesser  birds  to  lime)  : 
rOUH  CHOICE  AMONG  THESE  BOOKS,  1  DIME! 

Ho !  dealer ;  for  its  motto's  sake 
This  scarecrow  from  the  shelf  I  take ; 
Three  starveling  volumes  bound  in  one, 
Its  covers  warping  in  the  sun. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  SERIES.      37 

Methinks  it  hath  a  musty  smell, 

I  like  its  flavor  none  too  well, 

But  Yorick's  brain  was  far  from  dull, 

Though  Hamlet  pah  !  'd,  and  dropped  his  skull. 

Why,  here  comes  rain  !     The  sky  grows  dark,  — 

Was  that  the  roll  of  thunder  1     Hark  ! 

The  shop  afibrds  a  safe  retreat, 

A  chair  extends  its  welcome  seat, 

The  tradesman  has  a  civil  look 

(I  've  paid,  impromptu,  for  my  book). 

The  clouds  portend  a  sudden  shower,  — 

1 11  read  my  purchase  for  an  hour. 

What  have  I  rescued  from  the  shelf? 
A  Boswell,  writing  out  himself ! 
For  though  he  changes  dress  and  name, 
The  man  beneath  is  still  the  same, 
Laughing  or  sad,  by  fits  and  starts, 
One  actor  in  a  dozen  parts. 
And  whatsoe'er  the  mask  may  be, 
The  voice  assures  us.  This  is  he. 

I  say  not  this  to  cry  him  down ; 
I  find  my  Shakespeare  in  his  clown. 
His  rogues  the  self-same  parent  own  ; 


38     EPILOGUE  TO  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  SERIES. 

Nay  !  Satan  talks  in  Milton's  tone  ! 
Where'er  the  ocean  inlet  strays, 
The  salt  sea  wave  its  source  betrays, 
Where'er  the  queen  of  summer  blows, 
She  tells  the  zephyr,  "  I  'm  the  rose  !  " 

And  his  is  not  the  playwright's  page ; 
His  table  does  not  ape  the  stage  j 
What  matter  if  the  figures  seen 
Are  only  shadows  on  a  screen. 
He  finds  in  them  his  lurking  thought. 
And  on  their  lips  the  words  he  sought, 
Like  one  who  sits  before  the  keys 
And  plays  a  tune  himself  to  please. 

And  was  he  noted  in  his  day  1 

Read,  flattered,  honored  1    Who  shall  say  1 

Poor  wreck  of  time  the  wave  has  cast 

To  find  a  peaceful  shore  at  last, 

Once  glorying  in  thy  gilded  name 

And  freighted  deep  with  hopes  of  fame. 

Thy  leaf  is  moistened  with  a  tear, 

The  first  for  many  a  long,  long  year  ! 

For  be  it  more  or  less  of  art 

That  veils  the  lowliest  human  heart 


EPILOGUE  TO   THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  SIIRIES. 

Where  passion  throbs,  where  friendship  glovs, 

Where  pity's  tender  tribute  flows, 

Where  love  has  lit  its  fragrant  fire, 

And  sorrow  quenched  its  vain  desire, 

For  me  the  altar  is  divine, 

Its  flame,  its  ashes,  —  all  are  mine  ! 

And  thou,  my  brother,  as  I  look 
And  see  thee  pictured  in  thy  book, 
Thy  years  on  every  page  confessed 
In  shadows  lengthening  from  the  west, 
Thy  glance  that  wanders,  as  it  sought 
Some  freshly  opening  flower  of  thought, 
Thy  hopeful  nature,  light  and  free, 
I  start  to  find  myself  in  thee  ! 

Come,  vagrant,  outcast,  wretch  forlorn 
In  leather  jerkin  stained  and  torn, 
Whose  talk  has  filled  my  idle  hour 
And  made  me  half  forget  the  shower, 
I  '11  do  at  least  as  much  for  you. 
Your  coat  I  '11  patch,  your  gilt  renew, 
Read  you  —  perhaps  —  some  other  time. 
Not  bad,  my  bargain !     Price  one  dime  ! 
1872. 


NEAEING  THE  SNOW-LINE. 

Slow  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale, 

I  leave  the  bright  enamelled  zones  below ; 

No  more  for  me  their  beauteous  bloom  shall  glow, 
Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morning  gale  ; 
Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scentless,  pale, 

That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trembling  blow 

Along  the  margin  of  unmelting  snow  ; 
Yet  with  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I  hail, 

White  realm  of  peace  above  the  flowering  line  ; 
Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky  spires  ! 

O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt  planets  shine, 
On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  th6  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain  desires, 

And  all  the  unclouded  blue  of  heaven  is  thine  ! 

1870. 


IN  WAR  TIME. 


TO  CANAAN. 

A   PURITAN   WAR-SONG. 

Where  are  you  going,  soldiers, 

With  banner,  gun,  and  sword  1 
We  're  marching  South  to  Canaan 

To  battle  for  the  Lord  ! 
What  Captain  leads  your  armies 

Along  the  rebel  coasts  1 
The  Mighty  One  of  Israel, 
His  name  is  Lord  of  Hosts  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth. 
To  blow  before  the  heathen  walls 
The  trumpets  of  the  North  ! 

What  flag  is  this  you  carry 
Along  the  sea  and  shore  1 
The  same  our  grandsires  lifted  up,  — 


42  TO  CANAAN. 

The  same  our  fathers  bore  ! 
In  many  a  battle's  tempest 

It  shed  the  crimson  rain,  — 
What  God  has  woven  in  his  loom 
Let  no  man  rend  in  twain  1 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
To  plant  upon  the  rebel  towers 
The  banners  of  the  North  ! 

What  troop  is  this  that  follows, 

All  armed  with  picks  and  spades  ]  * 
These  are  the  swarthy  bondsmen,  — 

The  iron-skin  brigades  ! 
They  '11  pile  up  Freedom's  breastwork. 

They  '11  scoop  out  rebels'  graves ; 
Who  then  will  be  their  owner 
And  march  them  off  for  slaves  ] 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth. 
To  strike  upon  the  captive's  chain 
The  hammers  of  the  North ! 

What  song  is  this  you  're  singing  ] 
The  same  that  Israel  sung 
♦  The  captured  slaves  were  at  this  time  organized  as  pioneers. 


TO  CANAAN.  43 

When  Moses  led  the  mighty  choir, 

And  Miriam's  timbrel  rung  ! 
To  Canaan  !     To  Canaan  ! 

The  priests  and  maidens  cried  : 
To  Canaan  !     To  Canaan  ! 
The  people's  voice  replied. 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth, 
,To  thunder  through  its  adder  dens 
The  anthems  of  the  North  ! 

When  Canaan's  hosts  are  scattered, 

And  all  her  walls  lie  flat, 
What  follows  next  in  order  1 

—  The  Lord  will  see  to  that  ! 
We  '11  break  the  tyrant's  sceptre,  — 

We  '11  build  the  people's  throne,  — 
When  half  the  world  is  Freedom's, 
Then  all  the  world 's  our  own  ! 
To  Canaan,  to  Canaan 
The  Lord  has  led  us  forth. 
To  sweep  the  rebel  threshing-floors, 
A  whirlwind  from  the  North  ! 

August  12,  1862. 


"THUS  SAITH  THE  LOED,  I  OrPEE  THEE  THEEB 
THINGS." 

In  poisonous  dens,  where  traitors  hide 

Like  bats  that  fear  the  day, 
While  all  the  land  our  charters  claim 
Is  sweating  blood  and  breathing  flame, 
Dead  to  their  country's  woe  and  shame, 

The  recreants  whisper  Stay  ! 

In  peaceful  homes,  where  patriot  fires 

On  Love's  own  altars  glow. 
The  mother  hides  her  trembling  fear, 
The  wife,  the  sister,  checks  a  tear, 
To  breathe  the  parting  word  of  cheer, 

Soldier  of  Freedom,  Go  ! 

In  halls  where  Luxury  lies  at  ease. 
And  Mammon  keeps  his  state. 


<'THUS  SAITH  THE  LORD."  45 

Where  flatterers  fawn  and  menials  crouch, 
The  dreamer,  startled  from  his  couch, 
Wrings  a  few  counters  from  his  pouch, 
And  murmurs  faintly  Wait  ! 

In  weary  camps,  on  trampled  plains 

That  ring  with  fife  and  drum, 
The  battling  host,  whose  harness  gleams 
Along  the  crimson-flowing  streams. 
Calls,  like  a  warning  voice  in  dreams. 

We  want  you.  Brother !     Come  ! 

Choose  ye  whose  bidding  ye  will  do,  — 

To  go,  to  wait,  to  stay  ! 
Sons  of  the  Freedom-loving  town, 
Heirs  of  the  Fathers'  old  renown, 
The  servile  yoke,  the  civic  crown, 

Await  your  choice  To-day  ! 

The  stake  is  laid  !     0  gallant  youth 

With  yet  unsilvered  brow, 
If  Heaven  should  lose  and  Hell  should  win, 
On  whom  shall  lie  the  mortal  sin. 
That  cries  aloud.  It  might  have  been  ? 

God  calls  you  —  answer  NOW. 

1862. 


"CHOOSE  YOU  THIS  DAY  WHOM  YE  WILL  SERVE." 

Yes,  tyrants,  you  hate  us,  and  fear  while  you  hate 
The  self-ruling,  chain-breaking,  throne-shaking  State  ! 
The   night-birds    dread   morning,  —  your   instinct   is 

true,  — 
The  day-star  of  Freedom  brings  midnight  for  you  ! 

Why  plead  with  the  deaf  for  the  cause  of  mankind  1 
The  owl  hoots  at  noon  that  the  eagle  is  blind ; 
We  ask  not  your  reasons,  —  't  were  wasting  our  time,  — 
Our  life  is  a  menace,  our  welfare  a  crime  ! 

We  have  battles  to  fight,  we  have  foes  to  subdue,  — 
Time  waits  not  for  us,  and  we  wait  not  for  you ; 
The  mower  mows  on,  though  the  adder  may  writhe 
And  the   copper-head  coil  round   the    blade    of    his 
scythe ! 


"  CHOOSE  YOU  THIS  DAY."  47 

"No    sides   in  this   quarrel,"   your   statesmen    may 

urge, 
Of  school-house  and  wages  with  slave-pen  and  scourge ! — 
No  sides  in  the  quarrel !  proclaim  it  as  well 
To  the  angels  that  fight  with  the  legions  of  hell ! 

They  kneel  in  God's  temple,  the  North  and  the  South, 
With  blood  on  each  weapon  and  prayers  in  each  mouth, 
Whose  cry  shall  be  answered  1    Ye  Heavens,  attend 
The  lords  of  the  lash  as  their  voices  ascend  ! 

"  0  Lord,  we  are  shaped  in  the  image  of  thee,  — 
Smite  down  the  base  millions  that  claim  to  be  free, 
And  lend  thy  strong  arm  to  the  soft-handed  race 
Who  eat  not  their  bread  in  the  sweat  of  their  face  ! " 

So  pleads  the  proud  planter.     What  echoes  are  these  1 
The  bay  of  his  bloodhound  is  borne  on  the  breeze. 
And,  lost  in  the  shriek  of  his  victim's  despair. 
His  voice  dies  unheard.  —  Hear  the  Puritan's  prayer  ! 

"  0  Lord,  that  didst  smother  mankind  in  thy  flood, 
The  sun  is  as  sackcloth,  the  moon  is  as  blood, 
The  stars  fall  to  earth  as  untimely  are  cast 
The  figs  from  the  fig-tree  that  shakes  in  the  blast ; 


48  "CHOOSE  YOU  THIS  DAY." 

"  All  nations,  all  tribes  in  whose  nostrils  is  breath, 
Stand  gazing  at  Sin  as  she  travails  with  Death  ; 
Lord,  strangle  the  monster  that  struggles  to  birth, 
Or  mock  us  no  more  with  thy  *  Kingdom  on  Earth ' ! 

"  If  Ammon  and  Moab  must  reign  in  the  land 
Thou  gavest  thine  Israel,  fresh  from  thy  hand. 
Call  Baal  and  Ashtaroth  out  of  their  graves 
To  be  the  new  gods  for  the  empire  of  slaves  ! " 

Whose  God  will  ye  serve,  0  ye  rulers  of  men  ] 

Will  ye  build  you  new  shrines  in  the  slave-breeder^s 

den, 
Or  bow  with  the  children  of  light,  as  they  call 
On  the  Judge  of  the  Earth  and  the  Father  of  All  1 

Choose  wisely,  choose  quickly,  for  time  moves  apace,  — 
Each  day  is  an  age  in  the  life  of  our  race ; 
Lord,  lead  them  in  love,  ere  they  hasten  in  fear 
From  the  fast-rising  flood  that  shall  girdle  the  sphere  ! 

1863. 


NEVER  OE  NOWl 


AN    APPEAL. 


Listen,  young  heroes  !  your  country  is  calling ! 

Time  strikes  the  hour  for  the  brave  and  the  true  ! 
Now,  while  the  foremost  are  fighting  and  falling, 

Fill  up  the  ranks  that  have  opened  for  you  ! 

You  whom  the  fathers  made  free  and  defended, 
Stain  not  the  scroll  that  emblazons  their  fame  ! 

You  whose  fair  heritage  spotless  descended. 
Leave  not  your  children  a  bu-thright  of  shame  ! 

Stay  not  for  questions  while  Freedom  stands  gasping  ! 

Wait  not  till  Honor  Hes  wrapped  in  his  pall  ! 
Brief  the  lips'  meeting  be,  swift  the  hands'  clasping,  — 

*'  Off  for  the  wars  ! "  is  enough  for  them  all ! 
3  D 


50  NEVER    OR    NOW! 

Break  from  the  arms  that  would  fondly  caress  you ! 

Hark  !  't  is  the  bugle-blast,  sabres  are  drawn ! 
Mothers  shall  pray  for  you,  fathers  shall  bless  you, 

Maidens  shall  weep  for  you  when  you  are  gone  ! 

Never  or  now  !  cries  the  blood  of  a  nation, 

Poured  on  the  turf  where  the  red  rose  should  bloom ; 

Now  is  the  day  and  the  hour  of  salvation,  — 
Never  or  now  !  peals  the  trumpet  of  doom  ! 

Never  or  now  !  roars  the  hoarse-throated  cannon 
Through  the  black  canopy  blotting  the  skies ; 

Never  or  now  !  flaps  the  shell-blasted  pennon 
O'er  the  deep  ooze  where  the  Cumberland  lies  ! 

From  the  foul  dens  where  our  brothers  are  dying, 
Aliens  and  foes  in  the  land  of  their  birth,  — 

From  the  rank  swamps  where  our  martyrs  are  lying 
Pleading  in  vain  for  a  handful  of  earth,  — 

From  the  hot  plains  where  they  perish  outnumbered. 

Furrowed  and  ridged  by  the  battle-field's  plough, 
Comes  the  loud  summons;  too  long  you  have  slum- 
bered. 
Hear  the  last  Angel-trump,  —  Never  or  Now ! 
1862. 


THE  LAST  CHAEGE. 

Now,  men  of  the  Xorth  !  will  you  join  in  the  strife 
For  country,  for  freedom,  for  honor,  for  life  1 
The  giant  grows  blind  in  his  fury  and  spite,  — 
One  blow  on  his  forehead  will  settle  the  fight ! 

Flash  full  in  his  eyes  the  blue  lightning  of  steel, 
And  stun  him  with  cannon-bolts,  peal  upon  peal ! 
Mount,  troopers,  and  follow  your  game  to  its  lair. 
As  the  hound  tracks  the  wolf  and  the  beagle  the  hare ! 

Blow,  trumpets,  your  summons,  till  sluggards  awake  ! 
Beat,  drums,  till  the  roofs  of  the  faint-hearted  shake  ! 
Yet,  yet,  ere  the  signet  is  stamped  on  the  scroll, 
Their  names  may  be  traced  on  the  blood-sprinkled  roll ! 


52  '      THE  LAST  CHAEGE. 

Trust  not  the  false  herald  that  painted  your  shield  : 
True  honor  to-day  must  be  sought  on  the  field  ! 
Her  scutcheon  shows  white  with  a  blazon  of  red,  — 
The  life-drops  of  crimson  for  liberty  shed  ! 

The  hour  is  at  hand,  and  the  moment  draws  nigh ; 
The  dog-star  of  treason  grows  dim  in  the  sky ; 
Shine  forth  from  the  battle-cloud,  light  of  the  morn, 
Call  back  the  bright  hour  when  the  Nation  was  born  ! 

The  rivers  of  peace  through  our  valleys  shall  run. 
As  the  glaciers  of  tyranny  melt  in  the  sun ; 
Smite,  smite  the  proud  parricide  down  from  his  throne,  — 
His  sceptre  once  broken,  the  world  is  our  own ! 

1864. 


ONE   COUNTEY. 

One  country  !    Treason's  writhing  asp 
Struck  madly  at  her  girdle's  clasp, 
And  Hatred  wrenched  with  might  and  main 
To  rend  its  welded  links  in  twain,  ~ 

While  Mammon  hugged  his  golden  calf 
Content  to  take  one  broken  half. 
While  thankless  churls  stood  idly  by 
And  heard  unmoved  a  nation's  cry  ! 

One  country !     "  Nay,"  —  the  tyrant  crew 
Shrieked  from  their  dens,  —  "  it  shall  be  two  ! 
Ill  bodes  to  us  this  monstrous  birth 
That  scowls  on  all  the  thrones  of  earth, 
Too  broad  yon  stariy  cluster  shines. 
Too  proudly  tower  the  New-World  pines, 
Tear  down  the  '  banner  of  the  free,' 
And  cleave  their  land  from  sea  to  sea  !  " 


54  ONE   COUNTRY. 

One  country  still,  though  foe  and  "friend  " 
Our  seamless  empire  strove  to  rend ; 
Safe  !  safe  !  though  all  the  fiends  of  hell 
Join  the  red  murderers'  battle-yell ! 
What  though  the  lifted  sabres  gleam, 
The  cannons  frown  by  shore  and  stream,  — 
The  sabres  clash,  the  cannons  thrill, 
In  wild  accord,  One  country  still ! 

One  country  !  in  her  stress  and  strain 
We  heard  the  breaking  of  a  chain  ! 
Look  where  the  conquering  Nation  swings 
Her  iron  flail,  —  its  shivered  rings  ! 
Forged  by  the  rebels'  crimson  hand, 
That  bolt  of  wrath  shall  scourge  the  land 
Till  Peace  proclaims  on  sea  and  shore 
One  Country  now  and  evermore  ! 

1865. 


SHEEMAN  'S  IN  SAVANNAH! 

A   HALF-RHYMED    BIPROilPTU. 

Like  the  tribes  of  Israel, 
Fed  on  quails  and  manna, 
Sherman  and  his  glorious  band 
Journeyed  through  the  rebel  land. 
Fed  from  Heaven's  all-bounteous  hand, 
Marching  on  Savannah ! 

As  the  moving  pillar  shone, 
Streamed  the  starry  banner 
All  day  long  in  rosy  light, 
Flaming  splendor  all  the  night. 
Till  it  swooped  in  eagle  flight 

Down  on  doomed  Savannah  ! 

Glory  be  to  God  on  high  ! 
Shout  the  loud  Hosanna  ! 


56  SHERMAN  'S  IN  SAVANNAH  ! 

Treason's  wilderness  is  past, 
Canaan's  shore  is  won  at  last, 
Peal  a  nation's  trumpet-blast,  — 
Sherman  's  in  Savannah  ! 

Soon  shall  Eichmond's  tough  old  hide 

Find  a  tough  old  tanner ! 
Soon  from  every  rebel  wall 
Shall  the  rag  of  treason  fall, 
Till  our  banner  flaps  o'er  all 

As  it  crowns  Savannah  ! 


1865. 


GOD  SAVE  THE  FLAGI 

Washed  in  the  blood  of  the  brave  and  the  blooming, 
Snatched  from  the  altars  of  insolent  foes, 

Burning  with  star-fires,  but  never  consuming, 
Flash  its  broad  ribbons  of  lily  and  rose. 

Vainly  the  prophets  of  Baal  would  rend  it, 
Vainly  his  worshippers  pray  for  its  fall ; 

Thousands  have  died  for  it,  millions  defend  it, 
Emblem  of  justice  and  mercy  to  all : 

Justice  that  reddens  the  sky  with  her  terrors, 
Mercy  that  comes  with  her  white-handed  train. 

Soothing  all  passions,  redeeming  all  eiTors, 
Sheathing  the  sabre  and  breaking  the  chain. 
3* 


58  GOD  SAVE  THE  FLAG. 

Borne  on  the  deluge  of  old  usurpations, 
Drifted  our  Ark  o'er  the  desolate  seas ; 

Bearing  the  rainbow  of  hope  to  the  nations, 

Torn  from  the  storm-cloud  and  flung  to  the  breeze  ! 

God  bless  the  Flag  and  its  loyal  defenders, 
While  its  broad  folds  o'er  the  battle-field  wave. 

Till  the  dim  star-wreath  rekindle  its  splendors. 
Washed  from  its  stains  in  the  blood  of  the  brave  ! 


1865. 


HYMN 

AFTER  THE  EMANCIPATION   PROCLAMATION. 

Giver  of  all  that  crowns  our  days, 
With  grateful  hearts  we  sing  thy  praise ; 
Through  deep  and  desert  led  by  thee, 
Our  promised  land  at  last  we  see. 

Euler  of  Nations,  judge  our  cause  ! 
If  we  have  kept  thy  holy  laws, 
The  sons  of  Belial  curse  in  vain 
The  day  that  rends  the  captive's  chain. 

Thou  God  of  vengeance !  Israel's  Lord  ! 
Break  in  their  grasp  the  shield  and  sword, 
And  make  thy  righteous  judgments  known 
TiU  aU  thy  foes  are  overthrown  ! 


60  HYMN. 

Then,  Father,  lay  thy  healing  hand 
In  mercy  on  oar  stricken  land  j 
Lead  all  its  wanderers  to  the  fold, 
And  be  their  Shepherd  as  of  old. 

So  shall  one  Nation's  song  ascend 
To  thee,  our  Ruler,  Father,  Friend, 
While  Heaven's  wide  arch  resounds  again 
With  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

1865. 


HYMN 

FOR  THE   FAIR  AT   CHICAGO. 

0  God  !  in  danger's  darkest  hour, 

In  battle's  deadliest  field, 
Thy  name  has  been  our  Nation's  tower, 

Thy  truth  her  help  and  shield. 

Our  lips  should  fill  the  air  with  praise, 

Nor  pay  the  debt  we  owe. 
So  high  above  the  songs  we  raise 

The  floods  of  mercy  flow. 

Yet  thou  wilt  hear  the  prayer  we  speak, 
The  song  of  praise  we  sing,  — 

Thy  children,  who  thine  altar  seek 
Their  grateful  gifts  to  bring. 


62  HYMN. 

Thine  altar  is  the  sufferer's  bed, 
The  home  of  woe  and  pain, 

The  soldier's  turfy  pillow,  red 
With  battle's  crimson  rain. 

No  smoke  of  burning  stains  the  air, 
No  incense-clouds  arise ; 

Thy  peaceful  servants,  Lord,  prepare 
A  bloodless  sacrifice. 

Lo  !  for  our  wounded  brothers'  need, 
We  bear  the  wine  and  oil ; 

For  us  they  faint,  for  us  they  bleed. 
For  them  our  gracious  toil  1 

0  Father,  bless  the  gifts  we  bring ! 

Cause  thou  thy  face  to  shine. 
Till  every  nation  owns  her  King, 

And  all  the  earth  is  thine. 

1865. 


SONGS  OF  WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL. 


AMEEICA  TO  EUSSIA. 

Kead  by  Hon.  G.  V.  Fox  at  a  Dinner  given  to  the  Mission 
FROM  THE  United  States,  St.  Peteesburg^  August  5, 1866. 

Though  watery  deserts  hold  apart 

The  worlds  of  East  and  West, 
Still  beats  the  self-same  human  heart 

In  each  proud  Nation's  breast. 

Our  floating  turret  tempts  the  main 

And  dares  the  howling  blast 
To  clasp  more  close  the  golden  chain 

That  long  has  bound  them  fast. 

In  vain  the  gales  of  ocean  sweep, 

In  vain  the  billows  roar 
That  chafe  the  wild  and  stormy  steep 

Of  storied  Elsinore. 


64  AMERICA  TO  RUSSIA. 

She  comes  !     She  comes  !  her  banners  dip 

In  Neva's  flashing  tide, 
With  greetings  on  her  cannon's  lip, 

The  storm-god's  iron  bride  ! 

Peace  garlands  with  the  olive-bough 

Her  thunder-bearing  tower, 
And  plants  before  her  cleaving  prow 

The  sea-foam's  milk-white  flower. 


No  prairies  heaped  their  garnered  store 

To  fill  her  sunless  hold. 
Not  rich  Nevada's  gleaming  ore 

Its  hidden  caves  infold, 

But  lightly  as  the  sea-bird  swings 
She  floats  the  depths  above, 

A  breath  of  flame  to  lend  her  wings, 
Her  freight  a  people's  love  ! 

When  darkness  hid  the  starry  skies 

In  war's  long  winter  night, 
One  ray  still  cheered  our  straining  eyes, 

The  far-ofi*  Northern  light ! 


AMERICA  TO  KUSSIA.  65 

And  now  the  friendly  rays  return 

From  lights  that  glow  afar, 
Those  clustered  lamps  of  Heaven  that  bum 

Around  the  Western  Star. 

A  nation's  love  in  tears  and  smiles 

We  bear  across  the  sea, 
0  Neva  of  the  banded  isles, 

We  moor  our  hearts  in  thee  I 


WELCOME  TO  THE  GEAND  DUKE  ALEXIS. 

Music  Hall,  December  9,  1S71. 

Sung  to  the  Russian  National  Air  by  the  Children  of  the 
Public  Schools. 

Shadowed  so  long  by  the  storm-cloud  of  danger, 
Thou  whom  the  prayers  of  an  empire  defend, 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome  !  but  not  as  a  stranger, 
Come  to  the  nation  that  calls  thee  its  frieiid  ! 

Bleak  are  our  shores  with  the  blasts  of  December, 
Fettered  and  chill  is  the  rivulet's  flow  ; 

Throbbing  and  warm  are  the  hearts  that  remember 
Who  was  our  friend  when  the  world  was  our  foe. 

Look  on  the  lips  that  are  smiling  to  greet  thee, 
See  the  fresh  flowers  that  a  people  has  strewn  : 

Count  them  thy  sisters  and  brothers  that  meet  thee ; 
Guest  of  the  Nation,  her  heart  is  thine  own  ! 


WELCOME  TO  THE  GRAND  DUKE  ALEXIS.    67 

Fires  of  the  North,  in  eternal  communion, 

Blend  your  broad  flashes  with  evening's  bright  star ! 

God  bless  the  Empire  that  loves  the  Great  Union ; 
Strength  to  her  people  !     Long  life  to  the  Czar  ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  GEAND  DUKE  ALEXIS. 

December  9, 1871. 

OxE  word  to  the  guest  we  have  gathered  to  greet ! 
The  echoes  are  longing  that  word  to  repeat,  — 
It  springs  to  the  lips  that  are  waiting  to  part, 
For  its  syllables  spell  themselves  first  in  the  heart. 

Its  accent  may  vary,  its  sound  may  be  strange, 
But  it  bears  a  kind  message  that  nothing  can  change ; 
The  dwellers  by  Neva  its  meaning  can  tell. 
For  the  smile,  its  interpreter,  shows  it  full  well. 

That  word  !     How  it  gladdened  the  Pilgrim  of  yore, 
As  he  stood  in  the  snow  on  the  desolate  shore  ! 
When  the  shout  of  the  Sagamore  startled  his  ear 
In  the  phrase  of  the  Saxon,  't  was  music  to  hear  ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  GRAND  DUKE  ALEXIS.  69 

Ah,  little  could  Samoset  offer  our  sire,  — 

The  cabin,  the  corn-cake,  the  seat  by  the  fire ; 

He  had  nothing  to  give,  —  the  poor  lord  of  the  land,  — 

But  he  gave  him  a  Welcoiie,  —  his  heart  in  his  hand ! 

The  tribe  of  the  Sachem  has  melted  away, 
But  the  word  that  he  spoke  is  remembered  to-day, 
And  the  page  that  is  red  with  the  record  of  shame 
The  tear-drops  have  whitened  round  Samoset's  name. 

The  word  that  he  spoke  to  the  Pilgi'im  of  old 
May  sound  like  a  tale  that  has  often  been  told ; 
But  the  welcome  we  speak  is  as  fresh  as  the  dew,  — 
As  the  kiss  of  a  lover,  that  always  is  new  ! 

Ay,  Guest  of  the  Xation  !  each  roof  is  thine  own 
Through  all  the  broad  continent's  star-bannered  zone; 
From  the  shore  where  the  curtain  of  mom  is  uprolled, 
To  the  billows  that  flow  through  the  gateway  of  gold. 

The  snow-crested  mountains  are  calling  aloud ; 
Nevada  to  Ural  speaks  out  of  the  cloud. 
And  Shasta  shouts  forth,  from  his  throne  in  the  sky, 
To  the  storm-splintered  summits,  the  peaks  of  Altai ! 


70    AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  GRAND  DUKE  ALEXIS. 

You  must  leave  him,  they  say,  till  the  summer  is  green ! 
Both  shores  are  his  home,  though  the  waves  roll  be- 
tween ; 
And  then  we  '11  return  him,  with  thanks  for  the  same, 
As  fresh  and  as  smiling  and  tall  as  he  came. 

But  ours  is  the  region  of  Arctic  delight ; 
We  can  show  him  Auroras  and  pole-stars  by  night ; 
There 's  a  Muscovy  sting  in  the  ice-tempered  air, 
And  our  firesides  are  warm  and  our  maidens  are  fair. 

The  flowers  are  full-blown  in  the  garlanded  hall,  — 
They  will  bloom  round  his  footsteps  wherever  they  fall ; 
For  the  splendors  of  youth  and  the  sunshine  they  bring 
Make  the  roses  believe  't  is  the  summons  of  Spring. 

One  word  of  our  language  he  needs  must  know  well. 
But  another  remains  that  is  harder  to  spell ; 
We  shall  speak  it  so  ill,  if  he  wishes  to  learn 
How  we  utter  Farewell,  he  will  have  to  return  ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  CHINESE  EMBASSY. 

August  21,  1868. 

Beothers,  whom  we  may  not  reach 
Through  the  veil  of  ahen  speech, 
Welcome  !  welcome !  eyes  can  tell 
What  the  lips  in  vain  would  spell,  — 
Words  that  hearts  can  understand. 
Brothers  from  the  Flowery  Land ! 

We,  the  evening's  latest  born, 
Hail  the  children  of  the  mom  ! 
We,  the  new  creation's  birth, 
Greet  the  lords  of  ancient  earth. 
From  their  storied  walls  and  towers 
Wandering  to  these  tents  of  ours  ! 

Land  of  wonders,  fair  Cathay, 

Who  long  hast  shunned  the  staring  day, 


72  AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  CHINESE  EMBASSY. 

Hid  in  mists  of  poet's  dreams 
By  thy  blue  and  yellow  streams,  — 
Let  us  thy  shadowed  form  behold,  — 
Teach  us  as  thou  didst  of  old. 

Knowledge  dwells  with  length  of  days  j 
Wisdom  walks  in  ancient  ways ; 
Thine  the  compass  that  could  guide 
A  nation  o'er  the  stormy  tide, 
Scourged  by  passions,  doubts,  and  fears, 
Safe  through  thrice  a  thousand  years ! 

Looking  from  thy  turrets  gray 
Thou  hast  seen  the  world's  decay,  — 
Egypt  drowning  in  her  sands,  — 
Athens  rent  by  robbers'  hands,  — 
Rome,  the  wild  barbarian's  prey, 
Like  a  storm-cloud  swept  away  : 

Looking  from  thy  turrets  gray 
Still  we  see  thee.     Where  are  theyl 
And  lo  !  a  new-born  nation  waits, 
Sitting  at  the  golden  gates 
That  glitter  by  the  sunset  sea,  — 
Waits  with  outspread  arms  for  thee  ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET   TO  THE  CHINESE  EMBASSY.   73 

Open  wide,  ye  gates  of  gold, 
To  the  Dragon's  banner-fold  ! 
Builders  of  the  mighty  wall, 
Bid  your  mountain  barriers  fall ! 
So  may  the  girdle  of  the  sun 
Bind  the  East  and  West  in  one, 

Till  Mount  Shasta's  breezes  fan 
The  snowy  peaks  of  Ta  Sieue-Shan,  — 
Till  Erie  blends  its  waters  blue 
With  the  waves  of  Tung-Ting-Hu,  — 
Till  deep  Missouri  lends  its  flow 
To  swell  the  rushing  Hoang-Ho  ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  JAPANESE  EMBASSY. 

August  2,  1872. 

We  welcome  you,  Lords  of  the  Land  of  the  Sun  ! 
The  voice  of  the  many  sounds  feebly  through  one ; 
Ah  !  would  't  were  a  voice  of  more  musical  tone, 
But  the  dog- star  is  here,  and  the  song-birds  have  flown. 

And  what  shall  I  sing  that  can  cheat  you  of  smiles, 
Ye  heralds  of  peace  from  the  Orient  isles  1 
If  only  the  Jubilee  —     Why  did  you  wait  ? 
You  are  welcome,  but  oh  !  you  're  a  little  too  late  ! 

We  have  greeted  our  brothers  of  Ireland  and  France, 
Bound  the  fiddle  of  Strauss  we   have  joined   in  the 

dance. 
We  have  lagered  Herr  Saro,  that  fine-looking  man. 
And  glorified  Godfrey,  whose  name  it  is  Dan. 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  JAPANESE  EMBASSY.  To 

What  a  pity  !  we  've  missed  it  and  you  've  missed  it  too, 

We  had  a  day  ready  and  waiting  for  you ; 

We  'd  have  shown  you  —  provided,  of  course,  you  had 

come  —  • 
You  'd  have  heard  —  no,  you  would  n't,  because  it  was 

dumb. 

And  then  the  great  organ  !     The  chorus's  shout ! 
Like  the  mixture  teetotalers  call,  "  Cold  without "  — 
A  mingling  of  elements,  strong,  but  not  sweet ; 
And  the  drum,  just  referred  to,  that  "  could  n't  be  beat." 

The  shrines  of  our  pilgrims  are  not  like  your  own, 
Where  white  Fusiyama  lifts  proudly  its  cone, 
(The  snow-mantled  mountain  we  see  on  the  fan 
That  cools  our  hot  cheeks  with  a  breeze  from  Japan.) 

But  ours  the  wide  temple  where  worship  is  free 
As  the  wind  of  the  prairie,  the  wave  of  the  sea  ; 
You  may  build  your  own  altar  wherever  you  will, 
For  the  roof  of  that  temple  is  over  you  still. 

One  dome  overarches  the  star-bannered  shore ; 
You  may  enter  the  Pope's  or  the  Puritan's  door. 
Or  pass  with  the  Buddhist  his  gateway  of  bronze, 
For  a  priest  is  but  Man,  be  he  bishop  or  bonze. 


76    AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  JAPANESE  EMBASSY. 

And  the  lesson  we  teach  with  the  sword  and  the  pen 
Is  to  all  of  God's  children,  "  We  also  are  men  ! 
If  you  wrong  us  we  smart,  if  you  prick  us  we  bleed, 
If  you  love  us,  no  quarrel  with  color  or  creed  ! " 

You  '11  find  us  a  well-meaning,  free-spoken  crowd, 
Good-natured  enough,  but  a  little  too  loud,  — 
To  be  sure  there  is  always  a  bit  of  a  row 
When  we  choose  our  Tycoon,  and  especially  now. 

You  '11  take  it  all  calmly,  —  we  want  you  to  see 
What  a  peaceable  fight  such  a  contest  can  be, 
And  of  one  thing  be  certain,  however  it  ends. 
You  will  find  that  our  voters  have  chosen  your  friends. 

If  the  horse  that  stands  saddled  is  first  in  the  race, 
You  will  gi'eet  your  old  friend  with  the  weed  in  his 

face, 
And  if  the  white  hat  and  the  White  House  agree, 
You  '11  find  H.  G.  really  as  loving  as  he. 

But  0,  what  a  pity  —  once  more  I  must  say  — 
That  we  could  not  have  joined  in  a  "  Japanese  day  "  ! 
Such  greeting  we  give  you  to-night  as  we  can ; 
Long  life  to  our  brothers  and  friends  of  Japan  ! 


AT  THE  BANQUET  TO  THE  JAPANESE  EMBASSY.    77 

The  Lord  of  the  mountain  looks  down  from  his  crest 
As  the  banner  of  morning  unfurls  in  the  West  j 
The  Eagle  was  always  the  friend  of  the  Sun ; 
You  are  welcome !  —  The  song  of  the   cage-bird  is 
done. 


BEYANT'S  SEVENTIETH  BIETHDAY. 

November  3,  1864. 

0  EVEX-HANDED  Nature  !  we  confess 

This  life  that  men  so  honor,  love,  and  bless 

Has  filled  thine  olden  measure.     Not  the  less 

We  count  the  precious  seasons  that  remain ; 

Strike  not  the  level  of  the  golden  grain, 

But  heap  it  high  with  years,  that  earth  may  gain 

What  heaven  can  lose,  —  for  heaven  is  rich  in  song 

Do  not  all  poets,  dying,  still  prolong 

Their  broken  chants  amid  the  seraph  throng, 

Where,  blind  no  more,  Ionia's  bard  is  seen, 
And  England's  heavenly  minstrel  sits  between 
The  Mantuan  and  the  wan-cheeked  Florentine  ? 


BRYANT'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY.  79 

—  This  "w-as  the  first  sweet  singer  in  the  cage 
Of  oui'  close-woven  life.     A  new-born  age 
Claims  in  his  vesper  song  its  heritage  : 

Spare  us,  0,  spare  us  long  our  heart's  desire  ! 
Moloch,  who  calls  our  children  through  the  fire, 
Leaves  us  the  gentle  master  of  the  lyre. 

We  count  not  on  the  dial  of  the  sun 

The  hours,  the  minutes,  that  his  sands  have  run  j 

Rather,  as  on  those  flowers  that  one  by  one 

From  earliest  dawn  their  ordered  bloom  display 
Till  evening's  planet  with  her  guiding  ray 
Leads  in  the  blind  old  mother  of  the  day, 

"We  reckon  by  his  songs,  each  song  a  flower. 

The  long,  long  daylight,  numbering  hour  by  hour. 

Each  breathing  sweetness  like  a  bridal  bower. 


His  morning  glory  shall  we  e'er  forget  ] 
His  noontide's  full-blown  lily  coronet  ] 
His  evening  primrose  has  not  opened  yet ; 


80  BRYANT'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

Nay,  even  if  creeping  Time  should  hide  the  skies 
In  midnight  from  his  century-laden  eyes, 
Darkened  like  his  who  sang  of  Paradise, 

Would  not  some  hidden  song-bud  open  bright 

As  the  resplendent  cactus  of  the  night 

That  floods  the  gloom  with  fragrance  and  with  light  1 

—  How  can  we  praise  the  verse  whose  music  flows 
With  solemn  cadence  and  majestic  close. 
Pure  as  the  dew  that  filters  through  the  rose  1 

How  shall  we  thank  him  that  in  evil  days 

He  faltered  never,  —  nor  for  blame,  nor  praise, 

Nor  hire,  nor  party,  shamed  his  earlier  lays  1 

But  as  his  boyhood  was  of  manliest  hue, 
S6  to  his  youth  his  manly  years  were  true, 
All  dyed  in  royal  purple  through  and  through ! 

He  for  whose  touch  the  lyre  of  Heaven  is  strung 
Needs  not  the  flattering  toil  of  mortal  tongue  : 
Let  not  the  singer  grieve  to  die  unsung  ! 


BRYANT'S  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY.  81 

Marbles  forget  their  message  to  mankind  : 

In  his  own  verse  the  poet  still  we  find, 

In  his  own  page  his  memory  lives  enshrinec^. 

As  in  their  amber  sweets  the  smothered  bees,  — 

As  the  fair  cedar,  fallen  before  the  breeze, 

Lies  self-embalmed  amidst  the  mouldering"  trees; 

—  Poets,  like  youngest  children,  never  grow^ 
Out  of  their  mother's  fondness.     Nature  so 
Holds  their  soft  hands,  and  will  not  let  them  go^, 

Till  at  the  last  they  track  with  even  feet 
Her  rhythmic  footsteps,  and  their  pulses  beat 
Twinned  with  her  pulses,  and  their  lips  repeat 

The  secrets  she  has  told  them,  as  their  own  : 
Thus  is  the  inmost  soul  of  Nature  known, 
And  the  rapt  minstrel  shares  her  awful  throne ! 

0  lover  of  her  mountains  and  her  woods. 
Her  bridal  chamber's  leafy  solitudes. 
Where  Love  himself  with  tremulous  step  intrudes, 
4*  F 


82  BRYANT'S   SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

Her  snows  fall  harmless  on  thy  sacred  fire  : 
Far  be  the  day  that  claims  thy  sounding  lyre 
To  join  the  music  of  the  angel  choir  ! 

Yet,  since  life's  amplest  measure  must  be  filled, 
Since  throbbing  hearts  must  be  forever  stilled, 
And  all  must  fade  that  evening  sunsets  gild, 

Grant,  Father,  ere  he  close  the  mortal  eyes 

That  see  a  Nation's  reeking  sacrifice. 

Its  smoke  may  vanish  from  these  blackened  skies ! 

Then,  when  his  summons  comes,  since  come  it  must, 
And,  looking  heavenward  with  unfaltering  trust. 
He  wraps  his  drapery  round  him  for  the  dust. 

His  last  fond  glance  will  show  him  o'er  his  head 
The  Northern  fires  beyond  the  zenith  spread 
In  lambent  glory,  blue  and  white  and  red,  — 

The  Southern  cross  without  its  bleeding  load. 

The  milky  way  of  peace  all  frcshlj^  strowed, 

And  every  white-throned  star  fixed  in  its  lost  abode ! 


AT  A  mmm  to  general  grant. 

July  31,  1865. 

When  treason  first  began  the  strife 

That  crimsoned  sea  and  shore, 
The  Nation  poured  her  hoarded  life 

On  Freedom's  threshing-floor ; 
From  field  and  prairie,  east  and  west, 

From  coast  and  hill  and  plain. 
The  sheaves  of  ripening  manhood  pressed 

Thick  as  the  bearded  grain. 

Rich  was  the  harvest ;  souls  as  true 

As  ever  battle  tried ; 
But  fiercer  still  the  conflict  grew, 

The  floor  of  death  more  wide ; 
Ah,  who  forgets  that  dreadful  day 

Whose  blot  of  grief  and  shame 
Four  bitter  years  scarce  wash  away 

In  seas  of  blood  and  flame  ? 


84  AT  A  DINNER  TO  GENERAL  GRANT. 

Vain,  vain  the  Nation's  lofty  boasts, — 

Vain  all  her  sacrifice  ! 
"  Give  me  a  man  to  lead  my  hosts, 

0  God  in  heaven !  "  she  cries. 
While  battle  whirls  his  crushing  flail, 

And  plies  his  winnowing  fan,  — 
Thick  flies  the  chaff"  on  every  gale,  — 

She  cannot  find  her  man ! 

Bravely  they  fought  who  failed  to  win,  — 

Our  leaders  battle-scarred,  — 
Fighting  the  hosts  of  hell  and  sin, 

But  devils  die  always  hard  ! 
Blame  not  the  broken  tools  of  God 

That  helped  our  sorest  needs ; 
Through  paths  that  martyr  feet  have  trod 

The  conqueror's  steps  he  leads. 

But  now  the  heavens  grow  black  with  doubt. 

The  ravens  fill  the  sky, 
"  Friends  "  plot  within,  foes  storm  without. 

Hark,  —  that  despairing  cry, 
"  Where  is  the  heart,  the  hand,  the  brain 

To  dare,  to  do,  to  plan  1 " 
The  bleeding  Nation  shrieks  in  vain,  — 

She  has  not  found  her  man  ! 


AT  A  DINNER  TO  GENERAL  GRANT.  85 

A  little  echo  stirs  the  air,  — 

Some  tale,  whate'er  it  be, 
Of  rebels  routed  in  their  lair 

Along  the  Tennessee. 
The  little  echo  spreads  and  grows, 

And  soon  the  trump  of  Fame 
Had  taught  the  Nation's  friends  and  foes 

The  "  man  on  horseback  "  's  name. 

So  well  his  warlike  wooing  sped. 

No  fortress  might  resist 
His  billets-doux  of  lisping  lead, 

The  bayonets  in  his  fist,  — 
With  kisses  from  his  cannons'  mouth 

He  made  his  passion  known 
TiU  Vicksburg,  vestal  of  the  South, 

Unbound  her  virgin  zone. 

And  still  where'er  his  banners  led 

He  conquered  as  he  came, 
The  trembling  hosts  of  treason  fled 

Before  his  breath  of  flame. 
And  Fame's  still  gathering  echoes  grew 

Till  high  o'er  Richmond's  towers 
The  starry  fold  of  Freedom  flew. 

And  all  the  land  was  ours. 


86  AT  A  DINNER  TO  GENERAL  GRANT. 

Welcome  from  fields  where  valor  fought 

To  feasts  where  pleasure  waits  j 
A  Nation  gives  you  smiles  unbought 

At  all  her  opening  gates  ! 
Forgive  us  when  we  press  your  hand,  — 

Your  war-worn  features  scan,  — 
God  sent  you  to  a  bleeding  land ; 

Our  Nation  found  its  man  I 


AT  A  DEsNEE  TO  AD:UIEAL  FAREAGUT. 

July  6,  1865. 

Now  smiling  friends  and  shipmates  all, 

Since  half  our  battle  's  won, 
A  broadside  for  our  Admiral ! 

—  Load  every  crystal  gun  ! 
Stand  ready  till  I  give  the  word,  — 

—  You  won't  have  time  to  tire,  — 
And  when  that  glorious  name  is  heard, 

Then  hip  !  hurrah  !  and  fire  ! 

Bow  foremost  sinks  the  rebel  craft,  — 

Our  eyes  not  sadly  turn 
And  see  the  pirates  huddling  aft 

To  drop  their  raft  astern  ; 
Soon  o'er  the  sea-worm's  destined  prey 

The  lifted  wave  shall  close, — 
So  perish  from  the  face  of  day 

All  Freedom's  banded  foes  ! 


88  AT  A  DINNER  TO  ADMIRAL  FARRAGUT. 

But  ah  !  what  splendors  fire  the  sky  ! 

What  glories  greet  the  morn  ! 
The  storm-tost  banner  streams  on  high 

Its  heavenly  hues  new-born  ! 
Its  red  fresh  dyed  in  heroes'  blood, 

Its  peaceful  white  more  pure, 
To  float  unstained  o'er  field  and  flood 

While  earth  and  seas  endure  ! 

All  shapes  before  the  driving  blast 

Must  glide  from  mortal  view  j 
Black  roll  the  billows  of  the  past 

Behind  the  present's  blue. 
Fast,  fast,  are  lessening  in  the  light 

The  names  of  high  renown,  — 
Van  Tromp's  proud  besom  fades  from  sight, 

And  Nelson 's  half  hull  down  ! 

Scarce  one  tall  frigate  walks  the  sea 

Or  skirts  the  safer  shores 
Of  all  that  bore  to  victory 

Our  stout  old  Commodores  ; 
Hull,  Bainbridge,  Porter,  — where  are  they  1 

The  waves  their  answer  roll, 
"  Still  bright  in  memory's  sunset  ray,  — 

God  rest  each  gallant  soul !  " 


AT  A  DINNER  TO  ADMIRAL  FARRAGUT.  89 

A  brighter  name  must  dim  their  light 

With  more  than  noontide  ray, 
The  Sea-king  of  the  "River  Fight," 

The  Conqueror  of  the  Bay,  — 
Now  then  the  broadside  !  cheer  on  cheer 

To  greet  him  safe  on  shore ! 
Health,  peace,  and  many  a  bloodless  year 

To  fight  his  battles  o'er ! 


A  TOAST  TO  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

Februart  16,  1874. 

The  painter's  and  the  poet's  fame 

Shed  their  twinned  lustre  round  his  name, 

To  gild  our  story-teller's  art, 

Where  each  in  turn  must  play  his  part. 

What  scenes  from  Wilkie's  pencil  sprung, 
The  minstrel  saw  but  left  unsung ! 
What  shapes  the  pen  of  Collins  drew, 
No  painter  clad  in  living  hue  ! 

But  on  our  artist's  shadowy  screen 
A  stranger  miracle  is  seen 
Than  priest  unveils  or  pilgrim  seeks,  — 
The  poem  breathes,  the  picture  speaks  ! 


A  TOAST  TO  WILKIE  COLLINS.  91 

And  so  his  double  name  comes  true, 
They  christened  better  than  they  knew, 
And  art  proclaims  him  twice  her  son,  — 
Painter  and  poet,  both  in  one  ! 

February  i6,  1874. 


TO  E  W.  LONaFELLOW. 

Before  his  Departure  for  Europe,  May  27,  1868. 

Our  Poet,  who  has  taught  the  Western  breeze 
To  waft  his  songs  before  him  o'er  the  seas, 
Will  find  them  wheresoe'er  his  wanderings  reach 
Borne  on  the  spreading  tide  of  English  speech 
Twin  with  the  rhythmic  waves  that  kiss  the  farthest 
beach. 

Where  shall  the  singing  bird  a  stranger  be 
That  finds  a  nest  for  him  in  every  tree  1 
How  shall  he  travel  who  can  never  go 
Where  his  own  voice  the  echoes  do  not  know, 
Where  his  own  garden  flowers  no  longer  learn  to  grow  ? 

Ah,  gentlest  soul !  how  gracious,  how  benign 
Breathes  through  our  troubled  life  that  voice  of 
thine, 


TO  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW.  93 

Filled  with  a  sweetness  bom  of  happier  spheres, 
That  wins  and  warms,  that  kindles,  softens,  cheers, 
That  calms  the  wildest  woe  and  stays  the  bitterest 
tears  ! 

Forgive  the  simple  words  that  sound  like  praise ; 
The  mist  before  me  dims  my  gilded  phrase  ; 
Our  speech  at  best  is  half  alive  and  cold, 
And  save  that  tenderer  moments  make  us  bold 
Our  whitening  lips  would  close,  their  truest  truth  un- 
told. 

We  who  behold  our  autumn  sun  below 

The  Scorpion's  sign,  against  the  Archer's  bow, 

Know  well  what   parting  means  of  friend  from 

friend ; 
After  the  snows  no  freshening  dews  descend, 
And  what  the  frost  has  marred,  the  sunshine  will  not 

mend. 

So  we  all  count  the  months,  the  weeks,  the  days, 
That  keep  thee  from  us  in  unwonted  ways, 
Grudging  to  alien  hearths  our  widowed  time  ; 
And  one  has  shaped  a  breath  in  artless  rhyme 
That  sighs,  "We  track  thee  still  through  each  re- 
motest clime." 


94  TO  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

What  wishes,  longings,  blessings,  prayers  shall  be 
The  more  than  golden  freight  that  floats  with  thee ! 
And  know,  whatever  welcome  thou  shalt  find,  — 
Thou  who  hast  won  the  hearts  of  half  mankind,  — 
The  proudest,  fondest  love  thou  leavest  still  behind  ! 


TO  CHEISTIM  GOTTFEIED  EHEENBEEa.  s 

For  his  "Jubil^um"  at  Berlin,  November  5, 1868. 

Thou  who  hast  taught  the  teachers  of  mankind 
How  from  the  least.of  things  the  mightiest  grow, 

What  marvel  jealous  Nature  made  thee  blind, 
Lest  man  should  learn  what  angels  long  to  knowl 

Thou  in  the  flinty  rock,  the  river's  flow, 
In  the  thick-moted  sunbeam's  sifted  light 

Hast  trained  thy  downward-pointed  tube  to  show- 
Worlds  within  worlds  unveiled  to  mortal  sight, 

Even  as  the  patient  watchers  of  the  night,  — 
The  cyclope  gleaners  of  the  fruitful  skies,  — 

Show  the  wide  misty  way  where  heaven  is  white 
All  paved  with  suns  that  daze  our  wondering  eyes. 

Far  o'er  the  stormy  deep  an  empire  lies, 

Beyond  the  storied  islands  of  the  blest, 
That  waits  to  see  the  lingering  day-star  rise  ; 


96  TO  CHRISTIAN  GOTTFRIED  EHRENBERG. 

The  forest-cinctured  Eden  of  the  West ; 
Whose  queen,  fair  Freedom,  twines  her  iron  crest 

With  leaves  from  every  wreath  that  mortals  wear, 
But  loves  the  sober  garland  ever  best 

That  Science  lends  the  sage's  silvered  hair ;  — 
Science,  who  makes  life's  heritage  more  fair, 

Forging  for  every  lock  its  mastering  key, 
Filling  with  life  and  hope  the  stagnant  air, 

Pouring  the  light  of  Heaven  o'er  land  and  sea  ! 
From  her  unsceptred  realm  we  come  to  thee, 

Bearing  our  slender  tribute  in  our  hands ; 
Deem  it  not  worthless,  humble  though  it  be, 

Set  by  the  larger  gifts  of  older  lands  : 
The  smallest  fibres  weave  the  strongest  bands,  — 

In  narrowest  tubes  the  sovereign  nerves  are  spun,  - 
A  little  cord  along  the  deep  sea-sands 

Makes  the  live  thought  of  severed  nations  one  : 
Thy  fame  has  journeyed  westering  with  the  sun. 

Prairies  and  lone  sierras  know  thy  name 
And  the  long  day  of  service  nobly  done 

That  crowns  thy  darkened  evening  with  its  flame  ! 

One  with  the  grateful  world,  we  own  thy  claim,  — 

Nay,  rather  claim  our  right  to  join  the  throng 
Who  come  with  varied  tongues,  but  hearts  the  same. 


TO  CHRISTIAN  GOTTFRIED  EHRENBERG.  97 

To  hail  thy  festal  morn  with  smiles  and  song ; 
Ah,  happy  they  to  whom  the  joys  belong 

Of  peaceful  triumphs  that  can  never  die 
From  history's  record,  —  not  of  gilded  wrong,, 

But  golden  truths  that  while  the  world  goes  by 
With  all  its  empty  pageant,  blazoned  high 

Around  the  Master's  name  forever  shine  ! 
So  shines  thy  name  illumined  in  the  sky,  — 

Such  joys,  such  triumphs,  such  remembrance  thine  1 


MEMORIAL  VERSES. 


"FOE  THE  SEEYICES  IN  MEMOEY  OF  ABEAHAM 
LINCOLN. 

City  of  Boston,  June  1,  1865. 
Choral  :  Luther's  "Judgment  HjTnn." 

0  Thou  of  soul  and  sense  and  breath, 

The  ever-present  Giver, 
Unto  thy  mighty  Angel,  Death, 

All  flesh  thou  dost  deliver ; 
"What  most  we  cherish  we  resign, 
For  life  and  death  alike  are  thine, 

Who  reignest  Lord  forever  ! 

Our  hearts  lie  buried  in  the  dust 
With  him  so  true  and  tender, 

The  patriot's  stay,  the  people's  trust. 
The  shield  of  the  offender; 


IN  MEMORY   OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  99 

Yet  every  munnuring  voice  is  still, 
As,  bowing  to  thy  sovereign  will, 
Our  best-loved  we  surrender. 

Dear  Lord,  with  pitying  eye  behold 

This  martyr  generation, 
Which  thou,  through  trials  manifold, 

Art  showing  thy  salvation ! 
0  let  the  blood  by  murder  spilt 
"Wash  out  thy  stricken  children's  guilt 

And  sanctify  our  nation  ! 

Be  thou  thy  orphaned  Israel's  friend, 

Forsake  thy  people  never, 
In  One  our  broken  Many  blend, 

That  none  again  may  sever  ! 
Hear  us,  0  Father,  while  we  raise 
With  trembling  lips  our  song  of  praise, 

And  bless  thy  name  forever  ! 


FOR  THE  COMMEMOEATION  SEEVICES. 

Cambridge,  July  21, 1865. 

Four  summers  coined  their  golden  light  in  leaves, 
Four  wasteful  autumns  flung  them  to  the  gale, 

Four  winters  wore  the  shroud  the  tempest  weaves, 
The  fourth  wan  April  weeps  o'er  hill  and  vale ; 

And  still  the  war-clouds  scowl  on  sea  and  land, 
With  the  red  gleams  of  battle  staining  through. 

When  lo  !  as  parted  by  an  angel's  hand, 
They  open,  and  the  heavens  again  are  blue  ! 

Which  is  the  dream,  the  present  or  the  past  1 
The  night  of  anguish  or  the  joyous  mom  ? 

The  long,  long  years  with  horrors  overcast, 
Or  the  sweet  promise  of  the  day  new-bom  1 


COMMEMORATION  POEM.  101 

TeU  us,  0  father,  as  thine  arms  infold 

Thy  belted  first-born  in  their  fast  embrace. 

Murmuring  the  prayer  the  patriarch  breathed  of  old,  — 
"  Now  let  me  die,  for  I  have  seen  thy  face !  " 

Tell  us,  0  mother,  —  nay,  thou  canst  not  speak. 

But  thy  fond  eyes  shall  answer,  brimmed  with  joy,  — 

Press  thy  mute  lips  against  the  sun-browned  cheek, 
Is  this  a  phantom,  —  thy  returning  boy  1 

Tell  us,  0  maiden  —    Ah,  what  canst  thou  teU 
That  Nature's  record  is  not  first  to  teach,  — 

The  open  volume  all  can  read  so  weU, 

With  its  twin  rose-hued  pages  full  of  speech  1 

And  ye  who  mourn  your  dead,  —  how  sternly  true 
The  crushing  hour  that  wrenched  their  lives  away, 

Shadowed  with  sorrow's  midnight  veil  for  you. 
For  them  the  dawning  of  immortal  day  ! 

Dream-like  these  years  of  conflict,  not  a  dream  ! 

Death,  ruin,  ashes  tell  the  awful  tale, 
Read  by  the  flaming  war-track's  lurid  gleam  : 

No  dream,  but  truth  that  turns  the  nations  pale  ! 


102  COMMEMORATION  POEM. 

For  on  the  pillar  raised  by  martyr  hands 
Burns  the  rekindled  beacon  of  the  right, 

Sowing  its  seeds  of  fire  o'er  all  the  lands,  — 
Thrones  look  a  century  older  in  its  light ! 

Rome  had  her  triimaphs ;  round  the  conqueror's  car 
The  ensigns  waved,  the  brazen  clarions  blew. 

And  o'er  the  reeking  spoils  of  bandit  war 
With  outspread  wings  the  cruel  eagles  flew ; 

Arms,  treasures,  captives,  kings  in  clanking  chains 
Urged  on  by  trampling  cohorts  bronzed  and  scarred. 

And  wild-eyed  wonders  snared  on  Lybian  plains. 
Lion  and  ostrich  and  camelopard. 

Vain  all  that  prsetors  clutched,  that  consuls  brought 
When  Rome's  returning  legions  crowned  their  lord ; 

Less  than   the   least   brave   deed  these   hands   have 
wrought. 
We  clasp,  unclinching  from  the  bloody  sword. 

Theirs  was  the  mighty  work  that  seers  foretold ; 

They  know  not  half  their  glorious  toil  has  won, 
For  this  is  Heaven's  same  battle,  — joined  of  old 

When  Athens  fought  for  us  at  Marathon  ! 


COMMEMORATION  POEM.  103 

—  Behold  a  vision  none  hath  understood  ! 

The  breaking  of  the  Apocalyptic  seal ; 
Twice  rings  the  summons.  —  Hail  and  fire  and  blood ! 

Then  the  third  angel  blows  his  trumpet-peal. 

Loud  wail  the  dwellers  on  the  myrtled  coasts, 
The  green  savannas  swell  the  maddened  cry, 

And  with  a  yell  from  all  the  demon  hosts 

Falls  the  great  star  called  Wormwood  from  the  sky! 

Bitter  it  mingles  with  the  poisoned  flow 
Of  the  warm  rivers  winding  to  the  shore, 

Thousands  must  drink  the  waves  of  death  and  woe, 
But  the  star  Wormwood  stains  the  heavens  no  more  ! 

Peace  smiles  at  last ;  the  Nation  calls  her  sons 
To  sheathe  the  sword ;  her  battle-flag  she  furls, 

Speaks  in  glad  thunders  from  unshotted  guns, 
No  terror  shrouded  in  the  smoke-wreath's  curls. 

0  ye  that  fought  for  Freedom,  living,  dead. 
One  sacred  host  of  God's  anointed  Queen, 

For  every  holy  drop  your  veins  have  shed 

We  breathe  a  welcome  to  our  bowers  of  green  ! 


104  COMMEMORATION  POEM. 

Welcome,  ye  living !  from  the  foeman's  gripe 
Your  country's  banner  it  was  yours  to  wrest,  — 

Ah,  many  a  forehead  shows  the  banner-stripe. 
And  stars,  once  crimson,  hallow  many  a  breast. 

And  ye,  pale  heroes,  who  from  glory's  bed 
Mark  when  your  old  battalions  form  in  line. 

Move  in  their  marching  ranks  with  noiseless  tread, 
And  shape  unheard  the  evening  countersign, 

Come  with  your  comrades,  the  returning  brave 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  they  await  you  here ; 

These  lent  the  life  their  martyr-brothers  gave,  — 
Living  and  dead  alike  forever  dear  ! 


EDWAKD  EVEEETT, 

"  OUR   FIRST   CITIZEN."  * 

Winter's  cold  drift  lies  glistening  o'er  his  breast ; 

For  him  no  spring  shall  bid  the  leaf  unfold  : 
What  Love  could  speak,  by  sudden  grief  oppressed, 

What  swiftly  summoned  Memory  tell,  is  told. 

Even  as  the  bells,  in  one  consenting  chime, 
Filled  with  their  sweet  vibrations  all  the  air, 

So  joined  all  voices,  in  that  mournful  time, 
His  genius,  wisdom,  virtues,  to  declare. 

What  place  is  left  for  words  of  measured  praise, 
Till  calm-eyed  History,  with  her  iron  pen. 

Grooves  in  the  unchanging  rock  the  final  phrase 
That  shapes  his  image  in  the  souls  of  men  1 

*  Eead  at  the  meeting  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society, 
January  30,  1865. 

5* 


106     •  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

Yet  while  the  echoes  still  repeat  his  name, 

While  countless  tongues  his  full-orbed  life  rehearse^ 

Love,  by  his  beating  pulses  taught,  will  claim 
The  breath  of  song,  the  tuneful  throb  of  verse,  — 

Verse  that,  in  ever-changing  ebb  and  flow, 

Moves,  like  the  laboring  heart,  with  rush  and  rest, 

Or  swings  in  solemn  cadence,  sad  and  slow, 
Like  the  tired  heaving  of  a  grief-worn  breast. 

—  This  was  a  mind  so  rounded,  so  complete ; 

No  partial  gift  of  Nature  in  excess ; 
That,  like  a  single  stream  where  many  meet, 

Each  separate  talent  counted  something  less. 

A  little  hillock,  if  it  lonely  stand, 

Holds  o'er  the  fields  an  undisputed  reign  ,- 

While  the  broad  summit  of  the  table-land 
Seems  with  its  belt  of  clouds  a  level  plain. 

Servant  of  all  his  powers,  that  faithful  slave, 

Unsleeping  Memory,  strengthening  with  his  toils, 

To  every  ruder  task  his  shoulder  gave. 
And  loaded  every  day  with  golden  spoils. 


EDWAKD  EVERETT.  107 

Order,  the  law  of  Heaven,  was  throned  supreme 
O'er  action,  instinct,  impulse,  feeling,  thought  j 

True  as  the  dial's  shadow  to  the  beam. 

Each  hour  was  equal  to  the  charge  it  brought. 

Too  large  his  compass  for  the  nicer  skill 

That  weighs  the  world  of  science  grain  by  grain ; 

All  realms  of  knowledge  owned  the  mastering  will 
That  claimed  the  franchise  of  its  whole  domain. 

Earth,  air,  sea,  sky,  the  elemental  fire. 

Art,  history,  song,  —  what  meanings  lie  in  each 

Found  in  his  cunning  hand  a  stringless  lyre, 

And  poured  their  mingling  music  through  his  speecL 

Thence  flowed  those  anthems  of  our  festal  days, 

Whose  ravishing  division  held  apart 
The  lips  of  listening  throngs  in  sweet  amaze. 

Moved  in  all  breasts  the  self  same  human  heart. 

Subdued  his  accents,  as  of  one  who  tries 

To  press  some  care,  some  haunting  sadness  down ; 

His  smile  half  shadow  ;  and  to  stranger  eyes 
The  kingly  forehead  wore  an  iron  crown. 


108  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

He  was  not  armed  to  wrestle  with  the  storm, 
To  fight  for  homely  truth  with  vulgar  power ; 

Grace  looked  from  every  feature,  shaped  his  form,  — 
The  rose  of  Academe,  —  the  perfect  flower  ! 

Such  was  the  stately  scholar  whom  we  knew 
In  those  iU  days  of  soul-enslaving  calm, 

Before  the  blast  of  Northern  vengeance  blew 

Her  snow-wreathed  pine  against  the  Southern  palm. 

Ah,  God  forgive  us  !  did  we  hold  too  cheap 

The  heart  we  might  have  known,  but  would  not  see, 

And  look  to  find  the  nation's  friend  asleep 
Through  the  dread  hour  of  her  Gethsemane] 

That  wrong  is  past ;  we  gave  him  up  to  Death 
With  all  a  hero's  honors  round  his  name ; 

As  martyrs  coin  their  blood,  he  coined  his  breath, 
And  dimmed  the  scholar's  in  the  patriot's  fame. 

So  shall  we  blazon  on  the  shaft  we  raise,  — 
TeUing  our  grief,  our  pride,  to  unborn  years,  — 

*'  He  who  had  lived  the  mark  of  all  men's  praise 
Died  with  the  tribute  of  a  Nation's  tears." 


SHAKESPEARE. 

TERCEXTEXNIAL   CELEBRATION. 
Apeil  23,  1864 

"  Who  claims  our  Shakespeare  from  that  realm  un- 
known, 
Beyond  the  storm-vexed  islands  of  the  deep, 
Where  Genoa's  roving  mariner  was  blown  ] 

Her  twofold  Saint's-day  let  our  England  keep  ; 
Shall  warring  aliens  share  her  holy  task  ] " 
The  Old  World  echoes  ask. 

0  land  of  Shakespeare  !  ours  with  all  thy  past, 
Till  these  last  years  that  make  the  sea  so  wide, 

Think  not  the  jar  of  battle's  trumpet-blast 
Has  dulled  our  aching  sense  to  joyous  pride 

In  every  noble  word  thy  sons  bequeathed 
The  air  our  fathers  breathed ! 


110  SHAKESPEARE. 

War-wasted,  haggard,  panting  from  the  strife, 
We  turn  to  other  days  and  far-off  lands. 

Live  o'er  in  dreams  the  Poet's  faded  life, 
Come  with  fresh  liUes  in  our  fevered  hands 

To  wreathe  his  bust,  and  scatter  purple  flowers,  — 
Not  his  the  need,  but  ours  ! 

We  call  those  poets  who  are  first  to  mark 

Through  earth's  dull  mist  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 

Who  see  in  twilight's  gloom  the  first  pale  spark, 
While  others  only  note  that  day  is  gone ; 

For  him  the  Lord  of  light  the  curtain  rent 
That  veils  the  firmament. 

The  greatest  for  its  greatness  is  half  known. 

Stretching  beyond  our  narrow  quadrant-lines,  — 

As  in  that  world  of  Nature  all  outgrown 
Where  Calaveras  lifts  his  awful  pines. 

And  cast  from  Mariposa's  mountain-wall 
Nevada's  cataracts  fall. 

Yet  heaven's  remotest  orb  is  partly  ours. 
Throbbing  its  radiance  like  a  beating  heart ; 

In  the  wide  compass  of  angelic  powers 

The  instinct  of  the  blindworm  has  its  part ; 


SHAKESPEARE.  Ill 

So  in  God's  kingliest  creature  we  behold 
The  flower  our  buds  infold. 

"With  no  vain  praise  we  mock  the  stone-can'ed  name 
Stamped  once  on  dust  that  moved  with  pulse  and 
breath, 
As  thinking  to  enlarge  that  amplest  fame 

Whose  undimmed  glories  gild  the  uight  of  death  : 
We  praise  not  star  or  sun ;  in  these  we  see 
Thee,  Father,  only  thee  ! 

Thy  gifts  are  beauty,  wisdom,  power,  and  love  : 
We  read,  we  reverence  on  this  human  soul,  — 

Earth's  clearest  mirror  of  the  light  above,  — 
Plain  as  the  record  on  thy  prophet's  scroll, 

When  o'er  his  page  the  effluent  splendors  poured, 
Thine  own,  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord  ! " 

This  player  was  a  prophet  from  on  high, 
Thine  own  elected.     Statesman,  poet,  sage, 

For  him  thy  sovereign  pleasure  passed  them  by  ; 
Sidney's  fair  youth,  and  Raleigh's  ripened  age, 

Spenser's  chaste  soul,  and  his  imperial  mind 
Who  taught  and  shamed  mankind. 


112  SHAKESPEARE. 

Therefore  we  bid  our  hearts*  Te  Deum  rise, 
Nor  fear  to  make  thy  worship  less  divine, 

And  hear  the  shouted  choral  shake  the  skies, 
Counting  all  glory,  power,  and  wisdom  thine ; 

For  thy  great  gift  thy  greater  name  adore, 
And  praise  thee  evermore  ! 

In  this  dread  hour  of  Nature's  utmost  need. 

Thanks  for  these  unstained  drops  of  freshening  dew ! 

0,  while  our  martyrs  fall,  our  heroes  bleed, 
Keep  us  to  every  sweet  remembrance  true, 

Till  from  this  blood-red  sunset  springs  new-bom 
Our  Nation's  second  mom  ! 


m  MEMOET  OF  JOHN  AND  EOBEET  WAEE. 

Read  at  the  ANmiAL  Meeting  of  the  Massachusetts  Medical. 
Society,  May  25,  1861 

No  mystic  charm,  no  mortal  art, 

Can  bid  our  loved  companions  stay ; 
The  bands  that  clasp  them  to  our  heart 
Snap  in  death's  frost  and  fall  apart ; 
Like  shadows  fading  with  the  day, 
They  pass  away. 

The  young  are  stricken  in  their  pride, 

The  old,  long  tottering,  faint  and  fall ; 
Master  and  scholar,  side  by  side, 
Through  the  dark  portals  silent  glide, 
That  open  in  life's  mouldering  wall 
And  close  on  all. 

Our  friend's,  our  teacher's  task  was  done. 
When  Mercy  called  him  from  on  high ; 


114      IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  AND  ROBERT  WARE. 

A  little  cloud  had  dimmed  the  sun, 
The  saddening  hours  had  just  begun, 
And  darker  days  were  drawing  nigh  : 
'T  was  time  to  die. 

A  whiter  soul,  a  fairer  mind, 

A  Hfe  with  purer  course  and  aim, 
A  gentler  eye,  a  voice  more  kind. 
We  may  not  look  on  earth  to  find. 
The  love  that  lingers  o'er  his  name 
Is  more  than  fame. 

These  blood-red  summers  ripen  fast ; 

The  sons  are  older  than  the  sires ; 
Ere  yet  the  tree  to  earth  is  cast. 
The  sapling  falls  before  the  blast ; 

Life's  ashes  keep  their  covered  fires,  — 
Its  flame  expires. 

Struck  by  the  noiseless,  viewless  foe, 

Whose  deadlier  breath  than  shot  or  shell 
Has  laid  the  best  and  bravest  low, 
His  boy,  all  bright  in  morning's  glow, 
That  high-souled  youth  he  loved  so  well, 
Untimely  fell. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  AXD  ROBERT  WARE.      115 

Yet  still  he  wore  his  placid  smile, 
And,  trustful  in  the  cheering  creed 

That  strives  all  sorrow  to  beguile, 

Walked  calmly  on  his  way  awhile  : 
Ah,  breast  that  leans  on  breaking  reed 
Must  ever  bleed  ! 

So  they  both  left  us,  sire  and  son, 

With  opening  leaf,  with  laden  bough  : 
The  youth  whose  race  was  just  begim, 
The  wearied  man  whose  course  was  run, 
Its  record  written  on  his  brow, 
Are  brothers  now. 

Brothers  !  —  The  music  of  the  sound 

Breathes  softly  through  my  closing  strain ; 

The  floor  we  tread  is  holy  ground. 

Those  gentle  spirits  hovering  round. 

While  our  fair  circle  joins  again 

Its  broken  chain. 

1864. 


HUMBOLDT'S   BIETHDAY. 

Centennial  Celebration,  September  14,  1869. 
BONAPARTE,  AUGUST  15, 1769.  —  HUMBOLDT,  SEPTEMBER  14, 1769. 

Ere  yet  the  warning  chimes  of  midnight  somid, 
Set  back  the  flaming  index  of  the  year, 

Track  the  swift-shifting  seasons  in  their  round 
Through  fivescore  circles  of  the  swinging  sphere. 

Lo,  in  yon  islet  of  the  midland  sea 

That  cleaves  the  storm-cloud  with  its  snowy  crest, 
The  embryo-heir  of  Empires  yet  to  be, 

A  month-old  babe  upon  his  mother's  breast. 

Those  little  hands  that  soon  shall  grow  so  strong 
In  their  rude  grasp  great  thrones  shall  rock  and  fall, 

Press  her  soft  bosom,  while  a  nursery  song 
Holds  the  world's  master  in  its  slender  thrall. 


HUMBOLDT'S  BIRTHDAY.  117 

Look  !  a  new  crescent  bends  its  silver  bow ; 

A  new-lit  star  has  fired  the  eastern  sky ; 
Hark  !  by  the  river  where  the  lindens  blow 

A  waiting  household  hears  an  infant's  cry. 

This,  too,  a  conqueror  !  His  the  vast  domain, 
Wider  than  widest  sceptre-shadowed  lands ; 

Earth,  and  the  weltering  kingdom  of  the  main 
Laid  their  broad  charters  in  his  royal  hands. 

His  was  no  taper  lit  ui  cloistered  cage. 

Its  glimmer  borrowed  from  the  grove  or  porch ; 

He  read  the  record  of  the  planet's  page 
By  Etna's  glare  and  Cotopaxi's  torch. 

He  heard  the  voices  of  the  pathless  woods  ; 

On  the  salt  steppes  he  saw  the  starlight  shine ; 
He  scaled  the  mountain's  windy  solitudes, 

And  trod  the  galleries  of  the  breathless  mine. 

For  him  no  fingering  of  the  love-strung  lyre, 

No  problem  vague,  by  torturing  schoolmen  vexed  ; 

He  fed  no  broken  altar's  dying  fire. 

Nor  skulked  and  scowled  behind  a  Rabbi's  text. 


118  HUMBOLDT'S  BIRTHDAY. 

For  God's  new  truth  he  claimed  the  kingly  robe 
That  priestly  shoulders  counted  all  their  own, 

Unrolled  the  gospel  of  the  storied  globe 

And  led  young  Science  to  her  empty  throne. 

While  the  round  planet  on  its  axle  spins 

One  fruitful  year  shall  boast  its  double  birth, 

And  show  the  cradles  of  its  mighty  twins, 
Master  and  Servant  of  the  sons  of  earth. 

Which  wears  the  garland  that  shall  never  fade, 
Sweet  with  fair  memories  that  can  never  die  1 

Ask  not  the  marbles  where  their  bones  are  laid. 
But  bow  thine  ear  to  hear  thy  brothers'  cry :  — 

*'  Tear  up  the  despot's  laurels  by  the  root, 

Like  mandrakes,  shrieking  as  they  quit  the  soil ! 

Feed  us  no  more  upon  the  blood-red  fruit 

That  sucks  its  crimson  from  the  heart  of  Toil ! 

"  We  claim  the  food  that  fixed  our  mortal  fate,  — 
Bend  to  our  reach  the  long-forbidden  tree  ! 

The  angel  frowned  at  Eden's  eastern  gate,  — 
Its  western  portal  is  forever  free  ! 


HUMBOLDT'S  BIRTHDAY.  119 

"  Bring  the  white  blossoms  of  the  waning  year, 

Heap  with  fuU  hands  the  peaceful  conqueror's  shrine 

Whose  bloodless  triumphs  cost  no  sufferer's  tear ! 
Hero  of  knowledge,  be  our  tribute  thine ! " 

September  14,  1869. 


POEM 

At  the  Dedication  op  the  Halleck  Monument,  July  8,  1869. 

Say  not  the  Poet  dies  ! 

Though  in  the  dust  he  Ues, 
He  cannot  forfeit  his  melodious  breath, 

Unsphered  by  envious  death  ! 
Life  drops  the  voiceless  myriads  from  its  roll ; 

Their  fate  he  cannot  share, 

Who,  in  the  enchanted  air 
Sweet  with  the  lingering  strains  that  Echo  stole, 
Has  left  his  dearer  self,  the  music  of  his  soul ! 

We  o'er  his  turf  may  raise 

Our  notes  of  feeble  praise. 
And  carve  with  pious  care  for  after  eyes 

The  stone  with  "  Here  he  lies  "  ; 
He  for  himself  has  built  a  nobler  shrine, 

Whose  walls  of  stately  rhyme 


POEM.  121 

Roll  back  the  tides  of  time, 
While  o'er  their  gates  the  gleaming  tablets  shine 
That  wear  his  name  inwrought  with  many  a  golden  line  ! 

Call  not  our  Poet  dead, 

Though  on  his  turf  we  tread  ! 
Green  is  the  wreath  their  brows  so  long  have  worn, — 

The  minstrels  of  the  mom, 
Who,  while  the  Orient  burned  with  new-bom  flame, 

Caught  that  celestial  fire 

And  struck  a  Nation's  lyre  ! 
These  taught  the  western  winds  the  poet's  name ; 
Theirs  the  first  opening  buds,  the  maiden  flowers  of 
fame ! 

Count  not  our  Poet  dead  ! 
The  stars  shall  watch  his  bed, 
The  rose  of  June  its  fragrant  life  renew 

His  blushing  mound  to  strew. 
And  all  the  tuneful  throats  of  sunmier  swell 
With  trills  as  crystal-clear 
As  when  he  wooed  the  ear 
Of  the  young  muse  that  haunts  each  wooded  dell, 
With  songs  of  that  "  rough  land  "  he  loved  so  long  and 
weU! 
6 


122  POEM. 

He  sleeps ;  he  cannot  die ! 

As  evening's  long-drawn  sigh, 
Lifting  the  rose-leaves  on  his  peaceful  mound, 

Spreads  all  their  sweets  around, 
So,  laden  with  his  song,  the  breezes  blow 

From  where  the  rustling  sedge 

Frets  our  rude  ocean's  edge 
To  the  smooth  sea  beyond  the  peaks  of  snow. 
His  soul  the  air  enshrines  and  leaves  but  dust  below  1 


HYMN 

For  the  Celebeation  at  the  Laying  of  the  Corner-Stone  op 
Harvard  Memorial  Hall,  Cambridge,  October  6,  1870. 

Not  with  the  anguish  of  hearts  that  are  breaking 
Come  we  as  mourners  to  weep  for  our  dead; 

Grief  in  our  breasts  has  grown  weary  of  aching, 
Green  is  the  turf  where  our  tears  we  have  shed. 

While  o'er  their  marbles  the  mosses  are  creeping, 
Stealing  each  name  and  its  legend  away, 

Give  their  proud  story  to  Memory's  keeping, 
Shrined  in  the  temple  we  hallow  to-day. 

Hushed  are  their  battle-fields,  ended  their  marches, 
Deaf  are  their  ears  to  the  di'um-beat  of  morn,  — 
'    Rise  from  the  sod,  ye  fair  columns  and  arches  ! 
Tell  their  bright  deeds  to  the  ages  unborn ! 


124  HYMN. 

Emblem  and  legend  may  fade  from  the  portal, 
Keystone  may  crumble  and  pillar  may  fall ; 

They  were  the  builders  whose  work  is  immortal, 
Crowned  with  the  dome  that  is  over  us  all ! 


HYMN 

For   the   Dedication  of    Memorial  Hall    at    Cambridgb, 
June  23,  1874. 

Where,  girt  around  by  savage  foes, 
Our  nurturing  Mother's  shelter  rose, 
Behold,  the  lofty  temple  stands, 
Beared  by  her  children's  grateful  hands  ! 

Firm  are  the  pillars  that  defy 
The  volleyed  thunders  of  the  sky  ; 
Sweet  are  the  summer  wreaths  that  twine 
With  bud  and  flower  our  martyrs'  shrine. 

The  hues  their  tattered  colors  bore 
Fall  mingling  on  the  sunlit  floor 
Till  evening  spreads  her  spangled  pall, 
And  wraps  in  shade  the  storied  hall. 


126  HYMN. 

Firm  were  their  hearts  in  danger's  hour, 
Sweet  was  their  manhood's  morning  flower, 
Their  hopes  with  rainbow  hues  were  bright,  — 
How  swiftly  winged  the  sudden  night ! 

0  Mother  !  on  thy  marble  page 
Thy  children  read,  from  age  to  age. 
The  mighty  word  that  upward  leads 
Through  noble  thought  to  nobler  deeds. 

Truth,  heaven-bom  Truth,  their  fearless  guide, 
Thy  saints  have  lived,  thy  heroes  died ; 
Our  love  has  reared  their  earthly  shrine, 
Their  glory  be  forever  thine  ! 


HYMN 

At  the  Funeral  Seeyices  of   Chaeles  Sum>'er,  April 
1874. 

(Sung  "by  male  voices  to  a  national  air  of  Holland.) 

Once  more,  ye  sacred  towers, 

Your  solemn  dirges  sound  ; 
Strew,  loving  hands,  the  April  flowers, 

Once  more  to  deck  his  mound. 

A  nation  mourns  its  dead. 

Its  sorrowing  voices  one. 
As  Israel's  monarch  bowed  his  head 

And  cried,  "  My  son  !  My  son  !  " 

Why  mourn  for  him  1  —  For  him 
The  welcome  angel  came 
Ere  yet  his  eye  with  age  was  dim 
Or  bent  his  stately  frame ; 


128  HYMN. 

His  weapon  still  was  bright, 
His  shield  was  lifted  high 
To  slay  the  wrong,  to  save  the  right,  — 
What  happier  hour  to  die  1 

Thou  orderest  all  things  well ; 

Thy  servant's  work  was  done  ; 
He  lived  to  hear  Oppression's  knell, 

The  shouts  for  Freedom  won. 

Hark  !  from  the  opening  skies 

The  anthem's  echoing  swpll,  — 
"  0  mourning  Land,  lift  up  thine  eyes  ! 

God  reigneth.     All  is  well !  " 


EHYMES  OF  AN  HOUR 


ADDRESS 


For  the  Opening  of  the  Fieth  Avenue  Theatee,  New  York,. 
December  3,  1873. 

Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  stately  tower !. 
It  dawns  at  last  —  the  long-expected  hour  ! 
The  steep  is-  climbed,  the  star-lit  summit  won, 
The  builder's  task,  the  artist's  labor  done  ; 
Before  the  finished  work  the  herald  stands, 
And  asks  the  verdict  of  your  lips  and  hands  !" 

Shall  rosy  daybreak  make  us  all  forget 
The  golden  sun  that  yester-evening  set  1 
Fair  was  the  fabric  doomed  to  pass  away 
Ere  the  last  headaches  born  of  New  Year's  Day. 
With  blasting  breath  the  fierce  destroyer  came 
And  wrapped  the  victim  in  his  robes  of  flame  ; 
6*  I 


130  ADDRESS. 

The  pictured  sky  with  redder  morning  blushed, 
With  scorching  streams  the  naiad's  fountain  gushed, 
With  kindUng  mountains  glowed  the  funeral  i^jve, 
Forests  ablaze  and  rivers  all  on  fire,  — 
The  scenes  dissolved,  the  shrivelling  curtain  fell, — 
Art  spread  her  wings  and  sighed  a  long  farewell ! 

Mourn  o'er  the  Player's  melancholy  plight, — 
FalstafF  in  tears,  Othello  deadly  white,  — 
Poor  Romeo  reckoning  what  his  doublet  cost. 
And  Juliet  whimpering  for  her  dresses  lost,  — 
Their  wardrobes  burned,  their  salaries  all  undrawn. 
Their  cues  cut  short,  their  occupation  gone  ! 

"  Lie  there  in  dust,"  the  red- winged  demon  cried, 
"  Wreck  of  the  lordly  city's  hope  and  pride  !  " 
Silont  they  stand,  and  stare  with  vacant  gaze, 
While  o'er  the  embers  leaps  the  fitful  blaze ; 
When,  lo  !  a  hand,  before  the  startled  train. 
Writes  in  the  ashes,  "  It  shall  rise  again,  — 
Rise  and  confront  its  elemental  foes  !  "  — 
The  word  was  spoken,  and  the  walls  arose, 
And  ere  the  seasons  round  their  brief  career 
The  new-born  temple  waits  the  unborn  year. 


ADDRESS.  131 

Ours  was  the  toil  of  many  a  weary  day 
Your  smiles,  your  plaudits,  ouly  can  repay ; 
We  are  the  monarchs  of  the  painted  scenes, 
You,  you  alone  the  real  Kings  and  Queens  ! 
Lords  of  the  little  kingdom  where  we  meet. 
We  lay  our  gilded  sceptres  at  your  feet, 
Place  in  your  grasp  our  portal's  silvered  keys 
With  one  brief  utterance  —  We  have  tried  to  please. 
Tell  us,  3'e  Sovereigns  of  the  new  domain. 
Are  you  content  —  or  have  we  toiled  in  vain  1 

With  no  irreverent  glances  look  around 
The  realm  you  rule,  for  this  is  haunted  ground  ! 
Here  stalks  the  Sorcerer,  here  the  Fairy  trips, 
Here  limps  the  Witch  with  malice-working  lips, 
The  Graces  here  their  snowy  arms  entwine, 
Here  dwell  the  fairest  sisters  of  the  Nine,  — 
She  who,  with  jocund  voice  and  twinkling  eye. 
Laughs  at  the  brood  of  follies  as  they  fly  ; 
She  of  the  dagger  and  the  deadly  bowl. 
Whose  charming  horrors  thrill  the  trembling  soul ; 
She  who,  a  truant  from  celestial  spheres, 
In  mortal  semblance  now  and  then  appeai-s, 
Stealing  the  fairest  earthly  shape  she  can  — 
Sontag  or  Nilsson,  Lind  or  Malibran  ; 


132  ADDEESS. 

With  these  the  spangled  houri  of  the  dance,  — 
What  shaft  so  dangerous  as  her  melting  glance, 
As  poised  in  air  she  spurns  the  earth  below, 
And  points  aloft  her  heavenly-minded  toe  ! 

What  were  our  life,  with  aU  its  rents  and  seams, 
Stripped  of  its  purple  robes,  our  waking  dreams  ? 
The  poet's  song,  the  bright  romancer's  page, 
The  tinselled  shows  that  cheat  us  on  the  stage 
Lead  all  our  fancies  captive  at  their  will ; 
Three  years  or  threescore,  we  are  children  still. 
The  little  listener  on  his  father's  knee, 
With  wandering  Sindbad  ploughs  the  stormy  sea. 
With  Gotham's  sages  hears  the  billows  roll 
(Illustrious  trio  of  the  venturous  bowl, 
Too  early  shipwrecked,  for  they  died  too  soon 
To  see  their  offspring  launch  the  great  balloon) ; 
Tracks  the  dark  brigand  to  his  mountain  lair. 
Slays  the  grim  giant,  saves  the  lady  fair. 
Fights  all  his  country's  battles  o'er  again 
From  Bunker's  blazing  height  to  Lundy's  lane; 
Floats  with  the  mighty  Captains  as  they  sailed 
Before  whose  flag  the  flaming  red-cross  paled. 
And  claims  the  oft-told  story  of  the  scars 
Scarce  yet  grown  white,  that   saved  the  stripes  and 
stars ! 


ADDRESS.  133 

Children  of  later  growth,  we  love  the  Play, 
We  love  its  heroes,  be  they  grave  or  gay. 
From  squeaking,  peppery,  devil-defying  Punch 
To  roaring  Richard  with  his  camel-hunch  ; 
Adore  its  heroines,  those  immortal  dames. 
Time's  only  rivals,  whom  he  never  tames. 
Whose   youth,   unchanging,   lives   while   thrones   de- 
cay 
(Age  spares  the  Pyramids  —  and  Dejazet) ; 
The  saucy-aproned,  razor-tongued  soubrette, 
The  blond-haired  beauty  with  the  eyes  of  jet. 
The  gorgeous  Beings  whom  the  viewless  wires 
Lift  to  the  skies  in  strontian-crimsoned  fires. 
And  all  the  wealth  of  splendor  that  awaits 
The  throng  that  enters  those  Elysian  gates. 

See  where  the  hurrying  crowd  impatient  pours, 
With  noise  of  trampling  feet  and  flapping  doors, 
Streams  to  the  numbered  seat  each  pasteboard  fits 
And  smooths  its  caudal  plumage  as  it  sits ; 
Waits  while  the  slow  musicians  saunter  in. 
Till  the  bald  leader  taps  his  violin ; 
Till  the  old  overture  we  know  so  well, 
Zampa  or  Magic  Flute  or  William  Tell, 
Has  done  its  worst  —  then  hark  !  the  tinkling  bell  I 


134  ADDEESS. 

The  crash  is  o'er  —  the  crinkling  curtain  furled, 
And  lo  !  the  glories  of  that  brighter  world  ! 

Behold  the  offspring  of  the  Thespian  cart, 
This  full-grown  temple  of  the  magic  art, 
Where  all  the  conjurors  of  illusion  meet, 
And  please  us  all  the  more,  the  more  they  cheat. 
These  are  the  wizards  and  the  witches  too 
Who  win  their  honest  bread  by  cheating  you 
With  cheeks  that  drown  in  artificial  tears 
And  lying  skull-caps  white  with  seventy  years, 
Sweet-tempered  matrons  changed  to  scolding  Kates, 
Maids   mild  as   moonbeams   crazed   with   murderous 

hates, 
Kind,  simple  souls  that  stab  and  slash  and  slay 
And  stick  at  nothing,  if  it 's  in  the  play  ! 

Would  all  the  world  told  half  as  harmless  lies ! 
Would  all  its  real  fools  were  half  as  wise 
As  he  who  blinks  through  dull  Dundreary's  eyes ! 
Would  all  the  unhanged  bandits  of  the  age 
Were  like  the  peaceful  rufl5ans  of  the  stage  ! 
Would  all  the  cankers  wasting  town  and  state, 
The  mob  of  rascals,  little  thieves  and  great. 
Dealers  in  watered  milk  and  watered  stocks, 


ADDRESS.  •      135 

Who  lead  us  lambs  to  pasture  on  the  rocks,  — 
Shepherds  —  Jack  Sheppards  —  of  their  city  flocks  — 
The  rings  of  rogues  that  rob  the  luckless  town, 
Those  evil  angels  creeping  up  and  down 
The  Jacob's  ladder  of  the  treasury  stairs,  — 
Not  stage,  but  real  Turpins  and  Macaires,  — 
Could  doff,  like  us,  their  knavery  with  their  clothes, 
And  find  it  easy  as  forgetting  oaths  ! 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome  to  our  virgin  dome. 
The  Muses'  shrine,  the  Drama's  new-found  home  ! 
Here  shall  the  Statesman  rest  his  weary  brain. 
The  worn-out  Artist  find  his  wits  again ; 
Here  Trade  forget  his  ledger  and  his  cares, 
And  sweet  communion  mingle  Bulls  and  Bears ; 
Here  shall  the  youthful  Lover,  nestling  near 
The  shrinking  maiden,  her  he  holds  most  dear. 
Gaze  on  the  mimic  moonlight  as  it  falls 
On  painted  groves,  on  sliding  canvas  walls, 
And  sigh,  "  My  angel !     What  a  lifp  of  bliss 
We  two  could  live  in  such  a  world  as  this  !  " 
Here  shall  the  tumid  pedants  of  the  schools. 
The  gilded  boors,  the  labor-scorning  fools. 
The  grass-green  rustic  and  the  smoke-dried  cit, 
Feel  each  in  turn  the  stinging  lash  of  wit, 


136  ADDRESS. 

And  as  it  tingles  on  some  tender  part 
Each  find  a  balsam  in  his  neighbor's  smart ; 
So  every  folly  prove  a  fresh  delight 
As  in  the  pictures  of  our  play  to-night. 

Farewell !     The  Players  wait  the  Prompter's  call ; 
Friends,  lovers,  listeners !     Welcome  one  and  all ! 


PJP  TAX  WIXKLE,  M.  D. 

AN   AFTER-DIXXER   PRESCRIPTION 

Taken  by  the  Massachtsetts  Medical  Societt,  at  theie  ^Ieet- 
DsG  HELD  Mat  25,  1870. 

CANTO    FIRST. 

Old  Rip  Van  Winkle  had  a  grandson,  Rip, 
Of  the  paternal  block  a  genuine  chip  ; 
A  lazy,  sleepy,  curio  as  kind  of  chap  ; 
He,  like  his  grandsire,  took  a  mighty  nap, 
TMiereof  the  story  I  propose  to  tell 
In  two  brief  cantos,  if  you  hsten  well. 

The  times  were  hard  when  Rip  to  manhood  grew ; 
They  always  will  be  when  there 's  work  to  do ; 
He  tried  at  farming  —  found  it  rather  slow  — 
And  then  at  teaching  —  what  he  did  n't  know ; 
Then  took  to  hanging  round  the  tayern  bars. 
To  frequent  toddies  and  long-nine  cigars, 


138  EIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D. 

Till  Dame  Van  AYinkle,  out  of  patience,  vexed 
With  preaching  homilies,  having  for  their  text 
A  mop,  a  broomstick  —  aught  that  might  avail 
To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale, 
Exclaimed,  "  I  have  it !     Now  then,  Mr.  Y.  ! 
He  's  good  for  something  —  make  him  an  M.  D. !  " 

The  die  was  cast ;  the  youngster  was  content ; 

They  packed  his  shirts  and  stockings,  and  he  went. 

How  hard  he  studied  it  were  vain  to  tell ; 

He  drowsed  through  Wistar,  nodded  over  Bell, 

Slept  sound  with  Cooper,  snored  aloud  on  Good ; 

Heard  heaps  of  lectures  —  doubtless  imderstood  — 

A  constant  listener,  for  he  did  not  fail 

To  carve  his  name  on  every  bench  and  rail. 

Months  grew  to  years  ;  at  last  he  counted  three, 

And  Rip  Van  Winkle  found  himself  M.  D. 

Illustrious  title  !  in  a  gilded  frame 

He  set  the  sheepskin  with  his  Latin  name, 

Ripu:i  Van  Winklum,  quem  we  —  scimus  —  know 

Idoneum  esse  —  to  do  so  and  so  ; 

He  hired  an  office ;  soon  its  walls  displayed 

His  new  diploma  and  his  stock  in  trade, 


RIP   VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D.  139 

A  mighty  arsenal  to  subdue  disease, 

Of  various  names,  whereof  I  mention  these  : 

Lancets  and  bougies,  great  and  little  squirt. 
Rhubarb  and  Senna,  Snakeroot,  Thorough  wort. 
Ant.  Tart.,  Yin.  Colch.,  Pil.  Cochin,  and  Black  Drop, 
Tinctures  of  Opium,  Gentian,  Henbane,  Hop, 
Pulv.  Ipecacuanhse,  which  for  lack 
Of  breath  to  utter  men  call  Ipecac, 
Camphor  and  Kino,  Turpentine,  Tola, 
Cubebs,  ''Copeevy,"  Vitriol  —  white  and  blue, 
Fennel  and  Flaxseed,  Slippery  Elm  and  Squill, 
And  roots  of  Sassafras  and  "  Sassaf  rill," 
Brandy  —  for  colics  —  Pinkroot,  death  on  worms  — 
Valerian,  calmer  of  hysteric  squirms. 
Musk,  Assafcetida,  the  resinous  g-um 
Named  from  its  odor  —  well,  it  does  smell  some  — 
Jalap,  that  works  not  wisely,  but  too  well. 
Ten  pounds  of  Bark  and  six  of  Calomel. 

For  outward  griefs  he  had  an  ample  store. 
Some  twenty  jars  and  gallipots,  or  more  ; 
Ceratum  dmplex  —  housewives  oft  compile 
The  same  at  home,  and  call  it  "  wax  and  ile  "  ; 
JJnrjuentum  Resinosum  —  change  its  name, 
The  "  drawing  salve  "  of  many  an  ancient  dame ; 


140  RIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.D. 

Argenti  Nitras,  also  Spanish  flies, 

Whose  virtue  makes  the  water-bladders  rise  — 

(Some  say  that  spread  upon  a  toper's  skin 

They  draw  no  water,  only  rum  or  gin)  — 

Leeches,  sweet  vermin  !  don't  they  charm  the  sick  ^ 

And  Sticking-plaster  —  how  it  hates  to  stick  ! 

Emplastrum  Ferri  —  ditto  Picis,  Pitch  ; 

Washes  and  Powders,  Brimstone  for  the which, 

Scabies  or  Psora,  is  thy  chosen  name 

Since   Hahnemann's  goose-quill   scratched  thee   into 

fame. 
Proved  thee  the  source  of  every  nameless  ill, 
Whose  sole  specific  is  a  moonshine  pill. 
Till  saucy  Science,  with  a  quiet  grin. 
Held  up  the  Acarus,  crawling  on  a  pin  1 
—  Mountains  have  labored   and  have  brought  forth 

mice  : 
The  Dutchman's  theory  hatched  a  brood  of — twice 
I  've  wellnigh  said  them  —  words  unfitting  quite 
For  these  fair  precincts  and  for  ears  polite. 

The  surest  foot  may  chance  at  last  to  slip. 
And  so  at  length  it  proved  with  Doctor  Rip. 
One  full-sized  bottle  stood  upon  the  shelf 
Which  held  the  medicine  that  he  took  himself; 


BIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.D.  141 

Whate'er  the  reason,  it  must  be  confessed 
He  filled  that  bottle  oftener  than  the  rest ; 
What  drug  it  held  I  don't  presume  to  know  — 
The  gilded  label  said  "  Elixir  Pro." 

One  day  the  Doctor  found  the  bottle  full, 
And,  being  thirsty,  took  a  vigorous  pull. 
Put  back  the  "  Elixir  "  where  't  was  always  found, 
And  had  old  Dobbin  saddled  and  brought  round. 
—  You  know  those  old-time  rhubarb-colored  nags 
That  carried  Doctors  and  their  saddle-bags ; 
Sagacious  beasts  !  they  stopped  at  every  place 
Where  blinds  were  shut  —  knew  every  patient's  case  — 
Looked  up  and  thought  —  the  baby 's  in  a  fit  — 
That  won't  last  long  —  he  '11  soon  be  through  with  it ; 
But  shook  their  heads  before  the  knockered  door 
Where  some  old  lady  told  the  story  o'er 
Whose  endless  stream  of  tribulation  flows 
For  gastric  griefs  and  peristaltic  woes. 

What  jack  o'  lantern  led  him  from  his  way, 
And  where  it  led  him,  it  were  hard  to  say ; 
Enough  that  wandering  many  a  weary  mile 
Through  paths  the  mountain  sheep  trod  single  file, 
O'ercome  by  feelings  such  as  patients  know 


142  PJP   VAN  WINKLE,  M.D. 

Who  dose  too  freely  with  "  Elixir  Pro.," 
He  tumbl  —  dismounted,  slightly  in  a  heap, 
And  lay,  promiscuous,  lapped  in  balmy  sleep. 

Night  followed  night,  and  day  succeeded  day, 

But  snoring  still  the  slumbering  Doctor  lay. 

Poor  Dobbin,  starving,  thought  upon  his  stall. 

And  straggled  homeward,  saddle-bags  and  all ; 

The  village  people  hunted  all  around. 

But  Rip  was  missing,  —  never  could  be  found. 

*'Drownded,"  they  guessed; — for  more  than  half  a  year 

The  pouts  and  eels  did  taste  uncommon  queer ; 

Some  said  of  apple-brandy  —  other  some 

Found  a  strong  flavor  of  New  England  rum. 

—  Why  can't  a  fellow  hear  the  fine  things  said 
About  a  fellow  when  a  fellow 's  dead  ] 

The  best  of  doctors  —  so  the  press  declared  — 
A  public  blessing  while  his  life  was  spared, 
True  to  his  country,  bounteous  to  the  poor, 
In  all  things  temperate,  sober,  just,  and  pure ; 
The  best  of  husbands  !  echoed  Mrs.  Van, 
And  set  her  cap  to  catch  another  man. 

—  So  ends  this  Canto  —  if  it 's  quantum  siiff., 
We  '11  just  stop  here  and  say  we  've  had  enough, 


EIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.D.  143 

^And  leave  poor  Rip  to  sleep  for  thirty  years  ; 
I  grind  the  organ  —  if  you  lend  your  ears 
To  hear  my  second  Canto,  after  that 
We  '11  send  around  the  monkey  with  the  hat. 

CANTO    SECOND. 

So  thirty  years  had  past  —  but  not  a  word 

In  all  that  time  of  Rip  was  ever  heard  ; 

The  world  wagged  on  —  it  never  does  go  back  — 

The  widow  Van  was  now  the  widow  Mac  — 

France  was  an  Empire  —  Andrew  J.  was  dead, 

And  Abraham  L.  was  reigning  in  his  stead. 

Fom-  murderous  years  had  passed  in  savage  strife, 

Yet  still  the  rebel  held  his  bloody  knife. 

—  At  last  one  morning — who  forgets  the  day 

When  the  black  cloud  of  war  dissolved  away] 

The  joyous  tidings  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

Rebellion  done  for  !     Grant  has  captured  Lee  ! 

Up  every  flag-staff  sprang  the  Stars  and  Stripes  — 

Out  rushed  the  Extras  wild  with  mammoth  types  — 

Down    went     the     laborer's    hod,    the     school-boy's 

book  — 
"  Hooraw !  "  he  cried,  —  "  the  rebel  army 's  took  !  " 
Ah  !  what  a  time  !  the  folks  all  mad  with  joy  : 
Each  fond,  pale  mother  thinking  of  her  boy  ; 


144  EIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.D. 

Old  gray-haired  fathers  meeting  —    Have  —  you  — 

heard'? 
And  then  a  choke  —  and  not  another  word  ; 
Sisters  all  smiling  —  maidens,  not  less  dear, 
In  trembling  poise  between  a  smile  and  tear ; 
Poor  Bridget  thinking  how  she  '11  stuff  the  plums 
In  that  big  cake  for  Johnny  when  he  comes  j 
Cripples  afoot ;  rheumatics  on  the  jump, 
Old  girls  so  loving  they  could  hug  the  pump ; 
Guns  going  bang  !  from  every  fort  and  ship ; 
They  banged  so  loud  at  last  they  wakened  Rip. 

I  spare  the  picture,  how  a  man  appears 
Who  's  been  asleep  a  score  or  two  of  years ; 
You  all  have  seen  it  to  perfection  done 
By  Joe  Van  Wink  —  I  mean  Rip  Jefferson. 
Well,  so  it  was  ;  old  Rip  at  last  came  back, 
Claimed  his  old  wife  —  the  present  widow  Mac  — 
Had  his  old  sign  regilded,  and  began 
To  practise  physic  on  the  same  old  plan. 

Some  weeks  went  by  —  it  was  not  long  to  wait  — 
And  "  please  to  call "  grew  frequent  on  the  slate. 
He  had,  in  fact,  an  ancient,  mildewed  air, 
A  long  gray  beard,  a  plenteous  lack  of  hair  — 


EIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D.  145 

The  musty  look  that  always  recommends 
Your  good  old  Doctor  to  his  ailing  friends. 
—  Talk  of  your  science  !  after  all  is  said 
There 's  nothing  like  a  bare  and  shiny  head.; 
Age  lends  the  graces  that  are  sure  to  please ; 
Folks  want  their  Doctors  mouldy,  like  their  cheese. 

So  Rip  began  to  look  at  people's  tongues 
And    thump    their    briskets   (called  it  "sound   their 

lungs  "), 
Brushed  up  his  knowledge  smartly  as  he  could, 
Read  in  old  Cullen  and  in  Doctor  Good, 
The  town  was  healthy  ;  for  a  month  or  two 
He  gave  the  sexton  little  work  to  do- 
About  the  time  when  dog-day  heats  begin, 
The  summer's  usual  maladies  set  in ; 
With  autumn  evenings  dysentery  came. 
And  dusky  typhoid  lit  his  smouldering  flame ; 
The  blacksmith  ailed  —  the  carpenter  was  down. 
And  half  the  children  sickened  in  the  town. 
The  sexton's  face  grew  shorter  than  before  — 
The  sexton's  wife  a  brand-new  bonnet  wore  — 
Things  looked  quite  serious  —  Death  had  got  a  grip 
On  old  and  young,  in  spite  of  Doctor  Rip. 

7  J 


146  EIP   VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D. 

And  now  the  Squire  was  taken  with  a  chill  — 
Wife  gave  "  hot-drops  "  —  at  night  an  Indian  pill  • 
Next  morning,  feverish  —  bedtime,  getting  worse, 
Out  of  his  head  —  began  to  rave  and  curse  ; 
The  Doctor  sent  for  —  double  quick  he  came  : 
Ant.  Tart.  gran,  duo,  and  repeat  the  same 
If  no  et  cetera.     Third  day  —  nothing  new  ; 
Percussed  his  thorax  till  't  was  black  and  blue  — 
Lung-fever  threatening  —  something  of  the  sort  — 
Out  with  the  lancet  —  let  him  blood  —  a  quart  — 
Ten  leeches  next  —  then  blisters  to  his  side ; 
Ten  grains  of  calomel ;  just  then  he  died. 

The  Deacon  next  required  the  Doctor's  care  — 
Took  cold  by  sitting  in  a  draught  of  air  — 
Pains  in  the  back,  but  what  the  matter  is 
Not  quite  so  clear  —  wife  calls  it  "rheumatiz." 
Ptubs  back  with  flannel — gives  him  something  hot  — 
"  Ah  !  "  says  the  Deacon,  "  that  goes  nigh  the  spot." 
Next  d;iy  a  rif/o)" —  "  Run,  my  little  man, 
And  say  the  Deacon  sends  for  Doctor  Van." 
The  Doctor  came  —  percussion  as  before, 
Thumphig  and  banging  till  his  ribs  were  sore  — 
*'  Right  side  the  flattest" — then  more  vigorous  raps- 
"  Fever  —  that 's  certain  —  pleurisy,  perhaps. 


EIP   VAN  WINKLE,  M.  D.  U7 

A  quart  of  blood  will  ease  the  pain,  no  doubt, 

Ten  leeches  next  will  help  to  suck  it  out, 

Then  clap  a  blister  on  the  painful  part  — 

But  first  two  grains  of  Antimonium  Tart. 

Last,  with  a  dose  of  cleansing  calomel 

Unload  the  portal  system  —  (that  sounds  well  !)  " 

But  when  the  self-same  remedies  were  tried. 
As  all  the  village  knew,  the  Squire  had  died ; 
The  neighbors  hinted —  "  this  w^ill  never  do, 
He 's  killed  the  Squire  —  he  '11  kill  the  Deacon  too." 

—  Now  when  a  doctor's  patients  are  perplexed, 

A  consultation  comes  in  order  next  — 

You  know  what  that  is  1     In  a  certain  place 

Meet  certain  doctors  to  discuss  a  case 

And  other  matters,  such  as  weather,  crops, 

Potatoes,  pumpkins,  lager-beer,  and  hops. 

For  wdiat  's  the  use  ?  —  there  's  little  to  be  said, 

Nine  times  in  ten  your  man 's  as  good  as  dead ; 

At  best  a  talk  (the  secret  to  disclose) 

Where  three  men  guess  and  sometimes  one  man  knows. 

The  counsel  summoned  came  without  delay  — 
Young  Doctor  Green  and  shrewd  old  Doctor  Gray  — 


148  BIP   VAN  WINKLE,  M.D. 

They  heard  the  story  —  ''Bleed  !  "  says  Doctor  Green, 
*'  That 's  downright  murder!  cut  his  throat,  you  mean  ! 
Leeches  !  the  reptiles  !     Why,  for  pity's  sake. 
Not  try  an  adder  or  a  rattlesnake  1 
Blisters  !     Why  bless  you,  they  're  against  the  law  — 
It 's  rank  assault  and  battery  if  they  draw ! 
Tartrate  of  Antimony  !  shade  of  Luke, 
Stomachs  turn  pale  at  thought  of  such  rebuke  ! 
The  portal  system  !     What 's  the  man  about  1 
Unload  your  nonsense  !     Calomel 's  played  out ! 
You  've  been  asleep  —  you  'd  better  sleep  away 
Till  some  one  calls  you  " 

"  Stop  ! "  says  Doctor  Gray  — 
"The  story  is  you  slept  for  thirty  years ; 
With  brother  Green,  I  own  that  it  appears 
You  must  have  slumbered  most  amazing  sound ; 
But  sleep  once  more  till  thirty  years  come  round, 
You'll  find  the  lancet  in  its  honored  place, 
Leeches  and  blisters  rescued  from  disgrace. 
Your  drugs  redeemed  from  fashion's  passing  scorn, 
And  counted  safe  to  give  to  babes  unborn." 

Poor  sleepy  Rip,  M.  M.  S.  S.,  M.  D., 
A  puzzled,  serious,  saddened  man  was  he  ; 
Home  from  the  Deacon's  house  he  plodded  slow 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE,  M.D.  149 

And  filled  one  bumper  of  "  Elixir  Pro." 
"  Good  by,"  he  faltered,  "  Mrs.  Van,  my  dear  ! 
I  'm  going  to  sleep,  but  wake  me  once  a  year ; 
I  don't  like  bleaching  in  the  frost  and  dew, 
I  '11  take  the  barn,  if  all  the  same  to  you. 
Just  once  a  year  —  remember  !  no  mistake  ! 
Cry,  '  Kip  Van  Winkle  !  time  for  you  to  wake  !  * 
Watch  for  the  week  in  May  when  lay  locks  blow, 
For  then  the  Doctors  meet,  and  I  must  go." 

Just  once  a  year  the  Doctor's  worthy  dame 
Goes  to  the  barn  and  shouts  her  husband's  name, 
"  Come,  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  (giving  him  a  shake) 
'*  Rip  !  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  time  for  you  to  wake  ! 
Laylocks  in  blossom  !  't  is  the  month  of  May  — 
The  Doctors'  meeting  is  this  blessed  day, 
And  come  what  will,  you  know  I  heard  you  swear 
You  *d  never  miss  it,  but  be  always  there  ! " 

And  so  it  is,  as  every  year  comes  round 
Old  Rip  Van  Winkle  here  is  always  found. 
You  '11  quickly  know  him  by  his  mildewed  air, 
The  hayseed  sprinkled  through  his  scanty  hair, 
The  lichens  growing  on  his  rusty  suit  — 
I  've  seen  a  toadstool  sprouting  on  his  boot  — 


150  RIP   VAN  WINKLE,  M.D. 

—  Who  says  I  lie  1     Does  any  man  presume  ]  — 
Toadstool  1     No  matter  —  call  it  a  mushroom. 
Where  is  his  seat  1     He  moves  it  every  year ; 
But  look,  you  11  find  him  ■^-  he  is  always  here  — 
Perhaps  you  '11  track  him  by  a  whiff  you  know  — 
A  certain  flavor  of  "  Elixir  Pro." 

Now,  then,  I  give  you  —  as  you  seem  to  think 
We  can  give  toasts  without  a  drop  to  drink  — 
Health  to  the  mighty  sleeper  —  long  live  he  ! 
Our  brother  Rip,  M.  M.  S.  S.,  M.  D.  ! 


CHANSON  WITHOUT  MUSIC. 

By  the  Peofessor  Emeritus  of  Dead  and  Lite  Lan'guages. 
($.  B.  K.  —  Ca:sibridge,  1S67.) 

You  bid  me  sing,  —  can  I  forget 

The  classic  ode  of  days  gone  by,  — 
How  belle  Fifine  and  jeune  Lisette 

Exclaimed,  "  Anacreon,  geron  ei  "  1 
"  Regardez  done,"  those  ladies  said,  — 

"  You  're  getting  bald  and  wrinkled  too  : 
When  summer's  roses  all  are  shed, 

Love 's  nullum  ite,  voyez-YOus  !  " 

In  vain  ce  brave  Anacreon's  cry, 
"  Of  Love  alone  my  banjo  sings" 

(Erota  mounon).      "  Etiam  si,  — 

Eh  b'en  1 "  replied  the  saucy  things,  — 

"  Go  find  a  maid  whose  hair  is  gray. 

And  strike  your  lyre,  —  we  sha'  n't  complain  ; 


152  CHANSON  WITHOUT  MUSIC. 

But  parce  nobis,  s'il  vous  plait,  — 
Voila  Adolphe  !     Voila  Eugene  ! " 

Ah,  jeune  Lisette  !     Ah,  belle  Fifine  ! 

Anacreon's  lesson  all  must  learn ; 
'0  kairos  oxtis ;  Spring  is  green, 

But  Acer  Hyems  waits  his  turn ! 
I  hear  you  whispering  from  the  dust, 

"  Tiens,  mon  cher,  c'est  toujours  so,  — 
The  brightest  blade  grows  dim  with  rust. 

The  fairest  meadow  white  with  snow  ! " 

You  do  not  mean  it !     JVot  encore  ? 

Another  string  of  pi  ay  day  rhymes  1 
You  've  heard  me  —  nonne  est  1  —  before, 

Multoties,  —  more  than  twenty  times  ; 
Non  possum,  —  vraiment,  —  pas  du  tout, 

I  cannot !     I  am  loath  to  shirk ; 
But  who  will  listen  if  I  do, 

My  memory  makes  such  shocking  work  1 

Ginosko.  Scio.  Yes,  I  'm  told 
Some  ancients  like  my  rusty  lay. 

As  Grandpa  Noah  loved  the  old 

Red-sandstone  march  of  Jubal's  day. 


CHANSON  WITHOUT  MUSIC.  153 

I  used  to  carol  like  the  birds, 

But  time  my  wits  has  quite  unfixed, 
Et  quoad  verba,  —  for  my  words,  — 

Ciel !     Eheu  !     Whe-ew  !  —  how  they  're  mixed  ! 

Mehercle  !     Zeu  !     Diable  !  how 

My  thoughts  were  dressed  when  I  was  young, 
But  tempus  fugit !  see  them  now 

Half  clad  in  rags  of  every  tongue  ! 
0  philoi,  fratres,  chers  amis  ! 

I  dare  not  court  the  youthful  Muse, 
For  fear  her  sharp  response  should  be, 

"  Papa  Anacreon,  please  excuse  ! " 

Adieu  !     I  've  trod  my  annual  track 

How  long  !  —  let  others  count  the  miles,  — 
And  peddled  out  my  rhyming  pack 

To  friends  who  always  paid  in  smiles. 
So,  laissez-moi !  some  youthful  wit 

No  doubt  has  wares  he  wants  to  show ; 
And  I  am  asking,  "  Let  me  sit," 

Dum  ille  clamat,  "  Dos  pou  sto  ! " 


FOE  THE  CENTENNIAL  DINNEE 

Of  the  Proprietors  of  Boston  Pier,  or  the  Loxa  Wharf, 
April  16,  1873. 

Dear  friends,  we  are  strangers ;  we  never  before 
Have  suspected  what  love  to  each  other  we  bore ; 
But  each  of  us  all  to  his  neighbor  is  dear, 
Whose  heart  has  a  throb  for  our  time-honored  pier. 

As  I  look  on  each  brother  proprietor's  face, 
I  could  open  my  arms  in  a  loving  embrace  j 
What  wonder  that  feelings,  undreamed  of  so  long. 
Should  burst  all  at  once  in  a  blossom  of  song ! 

While  I  turn  my  fond  glance  on  the  monarch  of  piers, 
Whose  throne  has  stood  firm  through  his  eight-score 

of  years, 
My  thought  travels  backward,  and  reaches  the  day 
When  they  drove  the  first  pile  on  the  edge  of  the  bay. 


FOR   THE  CENTENNIAL  DINNER.  155 

See  !     The  joiner,  the  shipwi'ight,  the  smith  from  his 

forge, 
The  redcoat,  who  shoulders  his  gim  for  King  George, 
The  shopman,  the  'prentice,  the  boys  from  the  lane. 
The  parson,  the  doctor  with  gold-headed  cane. 


Come  trooping  down  King  Street,  where  now  may  be 

seen 
The  pulleys  and  ropes  of  a  mighty  machine  ; 
The  weight  rises  slowly ;  it  drops  with  a  thud  j 
And,  lo !  the  great  timber  sinks  deep  in  the  mud  ! 

They  are  gone,  the  stout  craftsmen  that  hammered  the 

piles. 
And  the  square-toed  old  boys  in  the  three-cornered 

tiles ; 
The  breeches,  the  buckles,  have  faded  from  view, 
And  the  parson's  white  wig  and  the  ribbon-tied  queue. 

The  redcoats  have  vanished ;  the  last  grenadier 
Stepped  into  the  boat  from  the  end  of  our  pier ; 
They  found  that  our  hills  were  not  easy  to  climb, 
And   the   order   came,  "Countermarch,   double-quick 
time  !  " 


156  FOR  THE  CENTENNIAL  DINNER. 

They  are  gone,  friend  and  foe,  —  anchored  fast  at  the 

pier, 
Whence   no   vessel  brings   back   its   pale   passengers 

here; 
But  our  wharf,  like  a  lily,  still  floats  on  the  flood, 
Its  breast  in  the  sunshine,  its  roots  in  the  mud. 

"Who  —  who  that  has  loved  it  so  long  and  so  well  — 
The  flower  of  his  birthright  would  barter  or  sell  1 
No  :  pride  of  the  bay,  while  its  ripples  shall  run. 
You  shall  pass,  as  an  heirloom,  from  father  to  son  ! 

Let  me  part  with  the  acres  my  grandfather  bought. 
With  the  bonds  that  my  uncle's  kind  legacy  brought, 
With  my  bank-shares,  —  old  "  Union,"  whose  ten  per 

cent  stock 
Stands  stiff"  through  the  storms   as   the   Eddystone 

rock ; 

With  my  rights  (or  my  wrongs)  in  the  "  Erie,"  —  alas ! 
With  my  claims  on  the  mournful  and  "  Mutual  Mass."; 
With  my  "Phil.  Wil.  and  Bait.,"  with  my  "C.  B.  and 

Q."; 

But  I  never,  no  never,  will  sell  out  of  you. 


FOR  THE  CENTENNIAL  DINNER.  157 

We  drink  to  thy  past  and  thy  future  to-day, 
Strong  right  arm  of  Boston,  stretched  out  o'er  the  bay. 
May  the  winds  waft  the  wealth  of  all  nations  to  thee, 
And  thy  dividends  flow  like  the  waves  of  the  sea ! 

1873. 


A  POEM  SERVED  TO  ORDER. 

Phi  Beta  Kappa,  June  26,  1873. 

The  Caliph  ordered  up  his  cook, 
And,  scowling  with  a  fearful  look 

That  meant,  —  We  stand  no  gammon,  - 
"  To-morrow,  just  at  two,"  he  said, 
"  Hassan,  our  cook,  -will  lose  his  head, 

Or  serve  us  up  a  salmon." 

"  Great  Sire,"  the  trembling  chef  replied, 
"  Lord  of  the  Earth  and  all  beside. 

Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars,  and  so  on  — " 
(Look  in  Eothen  —  there  you  '11  find 
A  list  of  titles.     Never  mind, 

I  have  n't  time  to  go  on  :) 

"  Great  Sire,"  and  so  forth,  thus  he  spoke, 
"  Your  Highness  must  intend  a  joke  ; 


A  POEM  SERVED  TO  ORDER.  159 

It  doesn't  stand  to  reason 
For  one  to  order  salmon  brought. 
Unless  that  fish  is  sometimes  caught, 

And  also  is  in  season. 

*'  Our  luck  of  late  is  shocking  bad, 
In  fact,  the  latest  catch  we  had 

(We  kept  the  matter  shady), 
But,  hauling  in  our  nets,  —  alack  ! 
We  found  no  salmon,  but  a  sack 

That  held  your  honored  Lady  !  " 

—  "  Allah  is  great !  "  the  Caliph  said, 
*'  My  poor  Zuleika,  you  are  dead, 

I  once  took  interest  in  you." 

—  "  Perhaps,  my  Lord,  you  'd  like  to  know 
We  cut  the  lines  and  let  her  go." 

—  "  Allah  be  praised  !     Continue." 

—  "  It  is  n't  hard  one's  hook  to  bait, 
And,  squatting  down,  to  watch  and  wait 

To  see  the  cork  go  under ; 
At  last  suppose  you  've  got  jonr  bite. 
You  twitch  away  with  all  your  might,  — 

You  've  hooked  an  eel,  by  thunder  !  " 


160  A  POEM  SERVED  TO  ORDER. 

The  Caliph  patted  Hassan's  head  : 

"  Slave,  thou  hast  spoken  well,"  he  said, 

"  And  won  thy  master's  favor. 
Yes  ;  since  what  happened  t'  other  mom 
The  salmon  of  the  Golden  Horn 

Might  have  a  doubtful  flavor. 

"  That  last  remark  about  the  eel 
Has  also  justice  that  we  feel 

Quite  to  our  satisfaction. 
To-morrow  we  dispense  with  fish, 
And,  for  the  present,  if  you  wish. 

You  '11  keep  your  bulbous  fraction." 

^'  Thanks  !  thanks  ! "  the  grateful  chef  replied, 
His  nutrient  feature  showing  wide 

The  gleam  of  arches  dental : 
"  To  cut  my  head  off  would  n't  pay, 
I  find  it  useful  every  day. 

As  well  as  ornamental." 


Brothers,  I  hope  you  will  not  fail 
To  see  the  moral  of  my  tale 
And  kindly  to  receive  it. 


A  POEM  SERVED  TO  ORDER.  161 

You  know  your  anniversary  pie 
Must  have  its  crust,  though  hard  and  dry, 
And  some  prefer  to  leave  it. 

How  oft  before  these  youths  were  bom 
I  've  fished  in  Fancy's  Golden  Horn 

For  what  the  Muse  might  send  me  ! 
How  gayly  then  I  cast  the  line, 
When  all  the  morning  sky  was  mine, 

And  Hope  her  flies  would  lend  me  ! 

And  now  I  hear  our  despot's  call, 
And  come,  like  Hassan,  to  the  hall,  — 

If  there 's  a  slave,  I  am  one,  — 
My  bait  no  longer  flies,  but  worms ! 
I  've  caught  —  Lord  bless  me !  how  he  squirms ! 

An  eel,  and  not  a  salmon  1 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 

Read  at  the  Meeting  of  the  Harvard  Alumni  Association, 
June  25,  1873. 

The  fount  the  Spaniard  sought  in  vain 

Through  all  the  land  of  flowers 
Leaps  glittering  from  the  sandy  plain 

Our  classic  grove  embowers  ; 
Here  youth,  unchanging,  blooms  and  smiles, 

Here  dwells  eternal  spring, 
And  warm  from  Hope's  elysian  isles 

The  winds  their  perfume  bring. 

Here  every  leaf  is  in  the  bud, 

Each  singing  throat  in  tune, 
And  bright  o'er  evening's  silver  flood 

Shines  the  young  crescent  moon. 
What  wonder  Age  forgets  his  staff 

And  lays  his  glasses  down, 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH.  163 

And  gray-haired  grandsires  look  and  laugh 
As  when  their  locks  were  brown  ! 

With  ears  grown  dull  and  eyes  grown  dim 

They  greet  the  joyous  day 
That  calls  them  to  the  fountain's  brim 

To  wash  their  years  away. 
What  change  has  clothed  the  ancient  sire 

In  sudden  youth  1     For,  lo  ! 
The  Judge,  the  Doctor,  and  the  Squire 

Are  Jack  and  Bill  and  Joe  ! 

And  be  his  titles  what  they  will, 

In  spite  of  manhood's  claim 
The  graybeard  is  a  school-boy  still 

And  loves  his  school-boy  name ; 
It  calms  the  ruler's  stormy  breast 

Whom  hurrjang  care  pursues, 
And  brings  a  sense  of  peace  and  rest, 

Like  slippers  after  shoes. 

And  what  are  all  the  prizes  won 

To  youth's  enchanted  view  1 
And  what  is  all  the  man  has  done 

To  what  the  boy  may  do  ? 


164        THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 

0  blessed  fount,  whose  waters  flow 
Alike  for  sire  and  son, 

That  melts  our  winter's  frost  and  snow 
And  makes  all  ages  one  ! 

1  pledge  the  sparkling  fountain's  tide, 

That  flings  its  golden  shower 
With  age  to  fill  and  youth  to  guide, 

Still  fresh  in  morning  flower ! 
Flow  on  with  ever-widening  stream, 

In  ever-brightening  morn,  — 
Our  story's  pride,  our  future's  dream, 

The  hope  of  times  unborn  ! 


A  HYMN  OF  PEACE. 

SUNQ  AT  THE   "  JUBILEE,"  JUNE  15,   1869,  TO  THE  MUSIC  OP 

Keller's  "American  Hymn." 

Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  wandered  too  long  ! 

Spread  thy  white  wings  to  the  sunshine  of  love  ! 
Come  while  our  voices  are  blended  in  song,  — 

Fly  to  our  ark  like  the  storm-beaten  dove  ! 
Fly  to  our  ark  on  the  wings  of  the  dove,  — 

Speed  o'er  the  far-sounding  billows  of  song, 
Crowned  with  thine  olive-leaf  garland  of  love,  — 

Angel  of  Peace,  thou  hast  waited  too  long  ! 

Brothers  we  meet,  on  this  altar  of  thine 

Mingling  the  gifts  we  have  gathered  for  thee. 

Sweet  with  the  odors  of  myrtle  and  pine, 

Breeze  of  the  prairie  and  breath  of  the  sea,  — 

Meadow  and  mountain  and  forest  and  sea  ! 
Sweet  is  the  fragrance  of  myrtle  and  pine, 


166  A  HYMN  OF  PEACE. 

Sweeter  the  incense  we  offer  to  thee, 

Brothers  once  more  round  this  altar  of  thine  ! 

Angels  of  Bethlehem,  answer  the  strain ! 

Hark  !  a  new  birth-song  is  filling  the  sky  !  — 
Loud  as  the  storm-wind  that  tumbles  the  main 

Bid  the  full  breath  of  the  organ  reply,  — 
Let  the  loud  tempest  of  voices  reply,  — 

Roll  its  long  surge  like  the  earth-shaking  main ! 
Swell  the  vast  song  till  it  mounts  to  the  sky !  — 

Angels  of  Bethlehem,  echo  the  strain  I 


POEMS 

FOR  THE  ANNUAL  MEETINGS  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  1829, 
HAEVARD  UNIVERSITY. 


1864. 

OUK  CLASSMATE,  F.  W.  C. 

Fast  as  the  rolling  seasons  bring 

The  hour  of  fate  to  those  we  love, 
Each  pearl  that  leaves  the  broken  string 

Is  set  in  Friendship's  crown  above. 
As  narrower  grows  the  earthly  chain, 

The  circle  widens  in  the  sky ; 
These  are  our  treasures  that  remain, 

But  those  are  stars  that  beam  on  high. 

"We  miss  —  0,  how  we  miss  !  —  his  face,  — 
With  trembling  accents  speak  his  name. 

Earth  cannot  fill  his  shadowed  place 
From  all  her  rolls  of  pride  and  fame  ; 


168  OUR  CLASSMATE,  F.  W.   C. 

Our  song  has  lost  the  silvery  thread 
That  carolled  through  his  jocund  lips  ; 

Our  laugh  is  mute,  our  smile  is  fled, 
And  all  our  sunshine  in  eclipse. 

And  what  and  whence  the  wondrous  charm 

That  kept  his  manhood  boy -like  still,  — 
That  life's  hard  censors  could  disarm 

And  lead  them  captive  at  his  will  1 
His  heart  was  shaped  of  rosier  clay,  — 

His  veins  were  filled  with  ruddier  fire,  — 
Time  could  not  chill  him,  fortune  sway, 

Nor  toil  with  all  its  burdens  tire. 

His  speech  burst  throbbing  from  its  fount 

And  set  our  colder  thoughts  aglow, 
As  the  hot  leaping  geysers  mount 

And  falling  melt  the  Iceland  snow. 
Some  word,  perchance,  we  counted  rash,  — 

Some  phrase  our  calmness  might  disclaim. 
Yet  't  was  the  sunset  lightning's  flash, 

No  angry  bolt,  but  harmless  flame. 

Man  judges  all,  God  knoweth  each  ; 
We  read  the  rule,  He  sees  the  law ; 


OUR  CLASSMATE,  F.  W.   C.  169 

How  oft  his  laughing  children  teach 
The  truths  his  prophets  never  saw  ! 

0  friend,  whose  wisdom  flowered  in  mirth, 
Our  hearts  are  sad,  our  eyes  are  dim ; 

He  gave  thy  smiles  to  brighten  earth,  — 
We  trust  thy  joyous  soul  to  Him  ! 

Alas  !  —  our  weakness  Heaven  forgive  ! 

We  murmur,  even  while  we  trust, 
"  How  long  earth's  breathing  burdens  live, 

Whose  hearts,  before  they  die,  are  dust !  " 
But  thou  !  —  through  griefs  untimely  tears 

We  ask  with  half-reproachful  sigh  — 
"  Couldst  thou  not  watch  a  few  brief  years 

Till  Friendship  faltered,  '  Thou  mayst  die  1 '  " 

Who  loved  our  boyish  years  so  well  1 

Who  knew  so  well  their  pleasant  tales. 
And  all  those  livelier  freaks  could  tell 

Whose  oft-told  story  never  fails  1 
In  vain  we  turn  our  aching  eyes,  — 

In  vain  we  stretch  our  eager  hands,  — 
Cold  in  his  wintry  shroud  he  lies 

Beneath  the  dreary  drifting  sands  ! 
8 


170  OUR  CLASSMATE,  F.  W.  C. 

Ah,  speak  not  thus  !     He  lies  not  there  ! 

We  see  him,  hear  him  as  of  old  ! 
He  comes  !  he  claims  his  wonted  chair ; 

His  beaming  face  we  still  behold  ! 
His  voice  rings  clear  in  all  our  songs, 

And  loud  his  mirthful  accents  rise ; 
To  us  our  brother's  life  belongs,  — 

Dear  friends,  a  classmate  never  dies  ! 


1865, 

OUE  OLDEST  FEIEND. 

I  GIVE  you  the  health  of  the  oldest  friend 
That,  short  of  eternity,  earth  can  lend,  — 
A  friend  so  faithful  and  tried  and  true 
That  nothing  can  wean  him  from  me  and  you. 

When  first  we  screeched  in  the  sudden  blaze 
Of  the  daylight's  blinding  and  blasting  rays, 
And  gulped  at  the  gaseous,  groggy  air, 
This  old,  old  friend  stood  waiting  there. 

And  when,  with  a  kind  of  mortal  strife, 
We  had  gasped  and  choked  into  breathing  life, 
He  watched  by  the  cradle,  day  and  night. 
And  held  our  hands  till  we  stood  upright. 


172  OUR  OLDEST  FRIEND. 

From  gristle  and  pulp  our  frames  have  grown 
To  stringy  muscle  and  solid  bone  ; 
While  we  were  changing,  he  altered  not ; 
We  might  forget,  but  he  never  forgot. 

He  came  with  us  to  the  college  class,  — 
Little  cared  he  for  the  steward's  pass  ! 
All  the  rest  must  pay  their  fee. 
But  the  grim  old  dead-head  entered  free. 

He  stayed  with  us  while  we  counted  o'er 
Four  times  each  of  the  seasons  four ; 
And  with  every  season,  from  year  to  year. 
The  dear  name  Classmate  he  made  more  dear. 

He  never  leaves  us,  —  he  never  wiU, 
Till  our  hands  are  cold  and  our  hearts  are  still ; 
On  birthdays,  and  Christmas,  and  New-Year's  too, 
He  always  remembers  both  me  and  you. 

Every  year  this  faithful  friend 

His  little  present  is  sure  to  send ; 

Every  year,  whereso'er  we  be. 

He  wants  a  keepsake  from  you  and  me. 


OUR  OLDEST  FRIEND.  173 

How  he  loves  us  !  he  pats  our  heads, 
And,  lo  !  they  are  gleaming  with  silver  threads ; 
And  he 's  always  begging  one  lock  of  hair, 
Till  our  shining  crowns  have  nothing  to  wear. 

At  length  he  will  tell  us,  one  by  one, 
"  My  child,  your  labor  on  earth  is  done  ; 
And  now  you  must  journey  afar  to  see 
My  elder  brother,  —  Eternity  !  " 

And  so,  when  long,  long  years  have  passed, 
Some  dear  old  fellow  will  be  the  last,  — 
Never  a  boy  alive  but  he 
Of  all  our  goodly  company  ! 

When  he  lies  down,  but  not  till  then. 
Our  kind  Class- Angel  will  drop  the  pen 
That  writes  in  the  day-book  kept  above 
Our  lifelong  record  of  faith  and  love. 

So  here  *s  a  health  in  homely  rhyme 
To  our  oldest  classmate,  Father  Time  ! 
May  our  last  survivor  live  to  be 
As  bald,  and  as  wise,  and  as  tough  as  he  ! 


1866. 

MT  ANNUAL. 

How  long  will  this  harp  which  you  once  loved  to  hear 
Cheat  your  lips  of  a  smile  or  your  eyes  of  a  tear  ] 
How  long  stir  the  echoes  it  wakened  of  old, 
While  its  strings  were  unbroken,  untarnished  its  gold] 

Dear  friends  of  my  boyhood,  my  words  do  you  wrong ; 
The  heart,  the  heart  only,  shall  throb  in  my  song ; 
It  reads  the  kind  answer  that  looks  from  your  eyes,  — 
"  We  will  bid  our  old  harper  play  on  till  he  dies." 

Though  Youth,  the  fair  angel  that  looked  o'er  the  strings. 
Has  lost  the  bright  glory  that  gleamed  on  his  wings. 
Though  the  freshness  of  morning  has  passed  from  its 

tone. 
It  is  still  the  old  harp  that  was  always  your  own. 


MY  ANNUAL.  176 

I  claim  not  its  music,  —  each  note  it  affords 

I  strike  from  your  heart-strings,  that   lend   me  its 

chords  j 
I  know  you  will  listen  and  love  to  the  last, 
For  it  trembles  and  thrills  with  the  voice  of  your  past. 

Ah,  brothers  !  dear  brothers  !  the  harp  that  I  hold 
No  craftsman  could  string  and  no  artisan  mould ; 
He  shaped  it,  He  strung  it,  who  fashioned  the  lyres 
That  ring  with  the  hymns  of  the  seraphim  choirs. 

Not  mine  are  the  visions  of  beauty  it  brings, 
Not  mine  the  faint  fragrance  around  it  that  clings ; 
Those  shapes  are  the  phantoms  of  years  that  are  fled, 
Those  sweets  breathe  from  roses  your  summers  have 
shed. 

Each  hour  of  the  past  lends  its  tribute  to  this. 
Till  it  blooms  like  a  bower  in  the  Garden  of  Bliss ; 
The  thorn  and  the  thistle  may  grow  as  they  will, 
Where  Friendship  unfolds  there  is  Paradise  still. 

The  bird  wanders  careless  while  summer  is  green, 
The  leaf-hidden  cradle  that  rocked  him  unseen ; 
When  Autumn's  rude  fingers  the  woods  have  undressed, 
The  boughs  may  look  bare,  but  they  show  him  his  nest 


176  MY  ANNUAL. 

Too  precious  these  moments  !  the  lustre  they  fling 
Is  the  light  of  our  year,  is  the  gem  of  its  ring, 
So  brimming  with  sunshine,  we  almost  forget 
The  rajs  it  has  lost,  and  its  border  of  jet. 

While  round  us  the  many-hued  halo  is  shed. 
How  dear  are  the  living,  how  near  are  the  dead ! 
One  circle,  scarce  broken,  these  waiting  below, 
Those  walking  the  shores  where  the  asphodels  blow  ! 

Not  life  shall  enlarge  it  nor  death  shall  divide,  — 
No  brother  new-born  finds  his  place  at  my  side ; 
No  titles  shall  freeze  us,  no  grandeurs  infest. 
His  Honor,  His  Worship,  are  boys  like  the  rest. 

Some  won  the  world's  homage,  their  names  we  hold 

dear,  — 
But  Friendship,  not  Fame,  is  the  countersign  here  ; 
Make  room  by  the  conqueror  crowned  in  the  strife 
For  the  comrade  that  limps  from  the  battle  of  life  ! 

What  tongue  talks  of  battle  1     Too  long  we  have  heard 
In  sorrow,  in  anguish,  that  terrible  word ; 
It  reddened  the  sunshine,  it  crimsoned  the  wave, 
It  sprinkled  our  doors  with  the  blood  of  our  brave. 


MY  ANNUAL.  177 

Peace,  Peace  comes  at  last,  with  her  gaiiaud  of  white  ; 
Peace  broods  in  all  hearts  as  we  gather  to-uight ; 
The  blazon  of  Union  spreads  full  in  the  sun  ; 
We  echo  its  words,  —  We  are  one  !     We  are  one  ! 


8* 


1867. 

ALL  HERE. 

It  is  not  what  we  say  or  sing, 

That  keeps  our  charm  so  long  unbroken, 
Though  every  lightest  leaf  we  bring 

May  touch  the  heart  as  friendship's  token ; 
Not  what  we  sing  or  what  we  say 

Can  make  us  dearer  to  each  other ; 
We  love  the  singer  and  his  lay. 

But  love  as  well  the  silent  brother. 

Yet  bring  whate'er  your  garden  grows. 

Thrice  welcome  to  our  smiles  and  praises ; 

Thanks  for  the  myrtle  and  the  rose. 
Thanks  for  the  marigolds  and  daisies ; 

One  flower  erelong  we  all  shall  claim, 
Alas  !  unloved  of  Amaryllis  — 


ALL  HERE.  179 

Nature's  last  blossom  — need  I  name 
The  wreath  of  threescore's  silver  lilies  1 

How  many,  brothers,  meet  to-night 

Around  our  boyhood's  covered  embers  1 
Go  read  the  treasured  names  aright 

The  old  triennial  list  remembers  : 
Though  twenty  wear  the  starry  sign 

That  tells  a  life  has  broke  its  tether, 
The  fifty-eight  of  'twenty-nine  — 

God  bless  The  Boys  !  —  are  all  together ! 

These  come  with  joyous  look  and  word, 

'With  friendly  grasp  and  cheerful  greeting,  — 
Those  smile  unseen,  and  move  unheard, 

The  angel  guests  of  every  meeting ; 
They  cast  no  shadow  in  the  flame 

That  flushes  from  the  gilded  lustre. 
But  count  us  —  we  are  still  the  same  ; 

One  earthly  band,  one  heavenly  cluster  ! 

Love  dies  not  when  he  bows  his  head 
To  pass  beyond  the  narrow  portals,  — 

The  light  these  glowing  moments  shed 

Wakes  from  their  sleep  our  lost  immortals ; 


180  ALL  HERE. 

They  come  as  in  their  joyous  prime, 

Before  their  morning  days  were  numbered,  — 

Death  stays  the  envious  hand  of  Time,  — 

The  eyes  have  not  grown  dim  that  slumbered  I 

The  paths  that  loving  souls  have  trod 

Arch  o'er  the  dust  where  worldlings  grovel 
High  as  the  zenith  o'er  the  sod,  — 

The  cross  above  the  Sexton's  shovel ! 
We  rise  beyond  the  realms  of  day ; 

They  seem  to  stoop  from  spheres  of  glory 
With  us  one  happy  hour  to  stray, 

While  youth  comes  back  in  song  and  story. 

Ah  !  ours  is  friendship  true  as  steel 

That  war  has  tried  in  edge  and  temper ; 
It  writes  upon  its  sacred  seal 

The  priest's  uhique  —  omnes  —  senqoer  ! 
It  lends  the  sky  a  fairer  sun 

That  cheers  our  lives  with  rays  as  steady 
As  if  our  footsteps  had  begun 

To  print  the  golden  streets  already  ! 

The  tangling  years  have  clinched  its  knot 
Too  fast  for  mortal  strength  to  sunder ; 


ALL  HERE.  181 

The  lightning  bolts  of  noon  are  shot ; 

No  fear  of  evening's  idle  thunder ! 
Too  late  !  too  late  1  —  no  gTaceless  hand 

Shall  stretch  its  cords  in  vain  endeavor 
To  rive  the  close  encircling  band 

That  made  and  keeps  us  one  forever  1 

So  when  upon  the  fated  scroll 

The  falling  stars  have  all  descended, 
And,  blotted  from  the  breathing  roll, 

Our  little  page  of  life  is  ended, 
We  ask  but  one  memorial  line 

Traced  on  thy  tablet.  Gracious  Mother : 
"  My  children.     Boys  of  '29. 

In  'pace.     How  they  loved  each  other  ! " 


1868. 

ONCE  MOKE. 

"  Will  I  come  ?  "     That  is  pleasant  !     I  beg  to  inquire 
If  the  gun  that  I  carry  has  ever  missed  fire  1 
And  which  was  the  muster-roll  —  mention  but  one  — 
That  missed  your  old  comrade  who  carries  the  gun  ] 

You  see  me  as  always,  my  hand  on  the  lock, 
The  cap  on  the  nipple,  the  hammer  full  cock. 
It  is  rusty,  some  tell  me  ;  I  heed  not  the  scoff ; 
It  is  battered  and  bruised,  but  it  always  goes  off! 

—  "Is  it  loaded  r'    I '11  bet  you!   What  doesn't  it  hold? 
Rammed  full  to  the  muzzle  with  memories  untold  ; 
"Why,  it  scares  me  to  fire,  lest  the  pieces  should  fly 
Like  the  cannons  that  burst  on  the  Fourth  of  July  ! 


ONCE  MORE.  183 

One  charge  is  a  remnant  of  College-day  dreams 
(Its  wadding  is  made  of  forensics  and  themes) ; 
Ah,  visions  of  fame  !  what  a  flash  in  the  pan 
As  the  trigger  was  pulled  by  each  clever  young  man  ! 

And  love !    Bless  my  stars,  what  a  cartridge  is  there  ! 
With  a  wadding  of  rose-leaves  and  ribbons  and  hair,  — 
All  crammed  in  one  verse  to  go  off  at  a  shot ! 
—  Were  there  ever  such  sweethearts  1    Of  course  there 
were  not ! 

And  next,  —  what  a  load  !  it  will  split  the  old  gun,  — 
Three  fingers,  —  four  fingers,  —  five  fingers  of  fun  ! 
Come  tell  me,  gray  sages,  for  mischief  and  noise 
Was  there  ever  a  lot  like  us  fellows,  "  The  Boys  "  1 

Bump !   bump !    down  the    staircase    the    cannon-ball 

goes,  — 
Aha,  old  Professor  !     Look  out  for  your  toes  ! 
Don't  think,  my  poor  Tutor,  to  sleej:*  in  your  bed,  — 
Two  "  Boys  "  —  'twenty-niners  —  room  over  your  head  ! 

Remember  the  nights  when  the  tar-barrel  blazed  ! 
From  red  "  Massachusetts  "  the  war-cry  was  raised ; 
And  "HoUis"  and  "  Stoughton  "  re-echoed  the  call ; 
Till  P poked  his  head  out  of  Holworthy  Hall  ! 


184  ONCE  MORE. 

Old  P ,  as  we  called  him,  —  at  fifty  or  so,  — 

Not  exactly  a  bud,  but  not  quite  in  full  blow ; 
In  ripening  manhood,  suppose  we  should  say. 
Just  nearing  his  prime,  as  we  boys  are  to-day ! 

0,  say,  can  you  look  through  the  vista  of  age 
To  the  time  when  old  Morse  drove  the  regular  stage  ^ 
When  Lyon  told  tales  of  the  long-vanished  years. 
And  Lenox  crept  round  with  the  rings  in  his  ears  1 

And  dost  thou,  my  brother,  remember  indeed 
The  days  of  our  dealings  with  Willard  and  Read  1 
When  ''Dolly  "  was  kicking  and  running  away, 
And  punch  came  up  smoking  on  Fillebrown's  tray  % 

But  where  are  the  Tutors,  my  brother,  0  tell !  — 
And  where  the  Professors,  remembered  so  well  ? 
The  sturdy  old  Grecian  of  Holworthy  Hall, 
And  Latin,  and  Logic,  and  Hebrew,  and  all  1 

—  "  They  are  dead,  the  old  fellows  "  (we  called  them 

so  then. 
Though  we  since  have  found  out  they  were  lusty  young 

men). 


ONCE  MOKE.  185 

—  They  are  dead,  do  you  tell  me  1  —  but  how  do  you 

know? 
You  've  filled  once  too  often.     I  doubt  if  it 's  so^ 

I  'm  thinking.     I  'm  thinking.     Is  this  'sixty-eight  % 
It 's  not  quite  so  clear.     It  admits  of  debate.  . 
I  may  have  been  dreaming.     I  rather  incline 
To  think  —  yes,  I  'm  certain  —  it  is  'twenty-nine  1 

"By  Zhorzhe  ! "  —  as  friend  Sales  is  accustomed  to 

cry,  — 
You  tell  me  they  're  dead,  but  I  know  it 's  a  lie  I 
Is  Jackson  not  President  %  —  What  was 't  you  said  I 
It  can't  be;  you  're  joking ;  what, — all  of  'em  dead  ? 

Jim,  —  Harry,  —  Fred,  —  Isaac,  —  all  gone  from  our 

side? 
They  could  n't  have  left  us,  — no,  not  if  they  tried. 

—  Look,  —  there  's  our  old  Prseses,  — he  can't  find  his 

text ; 

—  See,  —  P rubs  his  leg,  as  he  growls  out,  "  The 

next  1 " 

I  told  you  't  was  nonsense.     Joe,  give  us  a  song  ! 
Go  harness  up  "  Dolly,"  and  fetch  her  along  !  — 


186  ONCE  MORE. 

Dead  !   Dead  !   You  false  graybeard,  I  swear  they  are 

not! 
Hurrah  for  Old  Hickory  !  —  0,  I  forgot ! 

Well,  one  we  have  with  us  (how  could  he  contrive 
To  deal  with  us  youngsters  and  still  to  survive  f) 
Who  wore  for  our  guidance  authority's  robe,  — 
No  wonder  he  took  to  the  study  of  Job  ! 

—  And  now  as  my  load  was  uncommonly  large, 
Let  me  taper  it  off  with  a  classical  charge  ; 
When  that  has  gone  off,  I  shall  drop  my  old  gun  — 
And  then  stand  at  ease,  for  my  service  is  done. 

Bihamus  ad  Classem  vocatam  "  The  Boys  " 
Et  eorum  Tutorem  cui  nomen  est  "  Noyes  "  ; 
Bt  floreant,  valeant,  vigeant  tarn, 
Kon  Peircius  ipse  enumeret  qiiam  ! 


1869. 

THE  OLD  CEUISEE. 

Here  's  the  old  cruiser,  'Twenty-nine, 
Forty  times  she  's  crossed  the  line  ; 
Same  old  masts  and  sails  and  crew, 
Tight  and  tough  and  as  good  as  new. 

Into  the  harbor  she  bravely  steers 
Just  as  she  's  done  for  these  forty  years,  — 
Over  her  anchor  goes,  splash  and  clang  ! 
Down  her  sails  drop,  rattle  and  bang ! 

Comes  a  vessel  out  of  the  dock 
Fresh  and  spry  as  a  fighting-cock. 
Feathered  with  sails  and  spurred  with  steam, 
Headins:  out  of  the  classic  stream. 


188  THE  OLD  CRUISER. 

Crew  of  a  hundred  all  aboard, 
Every  man  as  fine  as  a  lord. 
Gay  they  look  and  proud  they  feel, 
Bowling  along  on  even  keel. 

On  they  float  with  wind  and  tide,  — 
Gain  at  last  the  old  ship's  side ; 
Every  man  looks  down  in  turn,  — 
Keads  the  name  that 's  on  her  stern. 

*'  'Twenty-nine  !  — Liable  you  say  ! 
That  was  in  Skipper  Kirkland's  day  ! 
What  was  the  Flying  Dutchman's  name  % 
This  old  rover  must  be  the  same. 

^'  Ho  !  you  Boatswain  that  walks  the  deck, 
How  does  it  happen  you  're  not  a  wreck  % 
One  and  another  have  come  to  grief, 
How  have  you  dodged  by  rock  and  reef  %  " 

—  Boatswain,  lifting  one  knowing  lid, 
Hitches  his  breeches  and  shifts  his  quid  : 
"Hey  ?     What  is  it  %    Who  's  come  to  grief? 
Louder,  young  swab,  I  'm  a  little  deaf." 


THE  OLD   CKUISEK.  189 

"  I  say,  old  fellow,  what  keeps  your  boat 
With  aU  your  joUy  old  boys  afloat, 
When  scores  of  vessels  as  good  as  she 
Have  swallowed  the  salt  of  the  bitter  sea  ? 

"  Many  a  crew  from  many  a  craft 
Goes  drifting  by  on  a  broken  raft 
Pieced  from  a  vessel  that  clove  the  brine 
Taller  and  prouder  than  'Twenty-nine. 

"  Some  capsized  in  an  angry  breeze, 
Some  were  lost  in  the  narrow  seas, 
Some  on  snags  and  some  on  sands 
Struck  and  perished  and  lost  theLr  hands. 

"  TeU  us  young  ones,  you  gray  old  man, 
What  is  your  secret,  if  you  can. 
We  have  a  ship  as  good  as  you, 
Show  us  how  to  keep  our  crew." 

So  in  his  ear  the  youngster  cries ; 
Then  the  gray  Boatswain  straight  replies  :  — 
"  All  your  crew  be  sure  you  know,  — 
Never  let  one  of  your  shipmates  go. 


190  THE  OLD  CRUISER. 

*'  If  he  leaves  you,  change  your  tack, 
Follow  him  close  and  fetch  him  back ; 
When  you  've  hauled  him  in  at  last, 
Grapple  his  flipper  and  hold  him  fast. 

"  If  you  've  wronged  him,  speak  him  fair, 
Say  you  're  sorry  and  make  it  square ; 
If  he 's  wronged  you,  wink  so  tight 
None  of  you  see  what 's  plain  in  sight. 

*'  When  the  world  goes  hard  and  wrong, 
Lend  a  hand  to  help  him  J^long ; 
When  his  stockings  have  holes  to  dam, 
Don't  you  gi'udge  him  your  ball  of  yarn. 

"  Once  in  a  twelvemonth,  come  what  may. 

Anchor  your  ship  in  a  quiet  bay, 

Call  all  hands  and  read  the  log, 

And  give  'em  a  taste  of  grub  and  grog. 

"  Stick  to  each  other  through  thick  and  thin  ; 
All  the  closer  as  age  leaks  in  ; 
Squalls  will  blow  and  clouds  will  frown, 
But  stay  by  your  ship  till  you  all  go  down ! " 


THE  OLD   CRUISEE.  191 

Added  for  the  Alumni  Meeting^  June  29,  1869. 

So  the  gray  Boatswain  of  'Tweuty-nine 

Piped  to  "  The  Boys"  as  they  crossed  the  line  ; 

Round  the  cabin  sat  thirty  guests, 

Babes  of  the  niurse  with  a  thousand  breasts. 

There  were  the  judges,  gi-ave  and  grand, 
Flanked  by  the  priests  on  either  hand ; 
There  was  the  lord  of  wealth  untold, 
And  the  dear  good  fellow  in  broadcloth  old. 

Thirty  men,  from  twenty  towns, 

Sires  and  grandsires  with  silvered  crowns,  — 

Thirty  school-boys  all  in  a  row,  — 

Bens  and  Georges  and  Bill  and  Joe. 

In  thirty  goblets  the  wine  was  poured. 

But  threescore  gathered  around  the  board,  — 

For  lo  !  at  the  side  of  every  chair 

A  shadow  hovered  —  we  all  were  there  ! 


1869. 

HYMN  FOE  THE  CLASS-MEETINa. 

Thou  Gracious  Power,  whose  mercy  lends 
The  light  of  home,  the  smile  of  friends, 
Our  gathered  flock  thine  arms  infold 
As  in  the  peaceful  days  of  old. 

Wilt  thou  not  hear  us  while  we  raise, 
In  sweet  accord  of  solemn  praise, 
The  voices  that  have  mingled  long 
In  joyous  flow  of  mirth  and  song  1 

For  all  the  blessings  life  has  brought, 
For  all  its  sorrowing  hours  have  taught. 
For  all  we  mourn,  for  all  we  keep, 
The  hands  we  clasp,  the  loved  that  sleep ; 


HYMN  FOR  THE  CLASS-MEETING.  193 

The  noontide  sunshine  of  the  past, 
These  brief,  bright  moments  fading  fast, 
The  stars  that  gild  our  darkening  years, 
The  twihght  ray  from  hoHer  spheres ; 

We  thank  thee,  Father !  let  thy  grace 
Our  narrowing  circle  still  embrace, 
Thy  mercy  shed  its  heavenly  store, 
Thy  peace  be  with  us  evermore  ! 


1870. 

EVEN-SONG. 

It  may  be,  yes,  it  must  be,  Tim©  that  brings 

An  end  to  mortal  things, 
That  sends  the  beggar  Winter  in  the  train 

Of  Autumn's  burdened  wain,  — 
Time,  that  is  heir  of  all  our  earthly  state. 

And  knoweth  well  to  wait 
Till  sea  hath  turned  to  shore  and  shore  to  sea, 

If  so  it  need  must  be. 
Ere  he  make  good  his  claim  and  call  his  own 

Old  empires  overthrown,  — 
Time,  who  can  find  no  heavenly  orb  too  large 

To  hold  its  fee  in  charge. 
Nor  any  motes  that  fill  its  beam  so  small, 

But  he  shall  care  for  all,  — 
It  may  be,  must  be,  —  yes,  he  soon  shall  tire 

This  hand  that  holds  the  lyre. 


EVEN-SONG.  195 

Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

When  to  my  careless  lay 
I  matched  its  chords  and  stole  their  first-born  thiill, 

With  untaught  rudest  skill 
Vexing  a  treble  from  the  slender  strings 

Thin  as  the  locust  sings 
When  the  shrill-crying  child  of  summer's  heat 

Pipes  from  its  leafy  seat, 
The  dim  pavilion  of  embowering  green 

Beneath  whose  shadowy  screen 
The  small  sopranist  tries  his  single  note 

Against  the  song-bird's  throat, 
And  all  the  echoes  listen,  but  in  vain  ; 

They  hear  no  answering  strain,  — 
Then  ye  who  listened  in  that  earlier  day 

Shall  sadly  turn  away, 

Saying,  "  The  fire  burns  low,  the  hearth  is  cold 

That  warmed  our  blood  of  old ; 
Cover  its  embers  and  its  half-burnt  brands, 

And  let  us  stretch  our  hands 
Over  a  brighter  and  fresh-kindled  flame  ; 

Lo,  this  is  not  the  same. 
The  joyous  singer  of  our  morning  time, 

Flushed  high  with  lusty  rhyme  ! 


196  EVEN-SONG. 

Speak  kindly,  for  he  bears  a  human  heart, 

But  whisper  him  apart,  — 
Tell  him  the  woods  their  autumn  robes  have  shed 

And  all  their  birds  have  fled. 
And  shouting  winds  unbuild  the  naked  nests 

They  warmed  with  patient  breasts  ; 
Tell  him  the  sky  is  dark,  the  summer  o'er, 

And  bid  him  sing  no  more  ! 

Ah,  welladay  !  if  words  so  cruel-kind 

A  listening  ear  might  find  ! 
But  who  that  hears  the  music  in  his  soul 

Of  rhythmic  waves  that  roll 
Crested  with  gleams  of  fire,  and  as  they  flow 

Stir  all  the  deeps  below 
Till  the  great  pearls  no  calm  might  ever  reach 

Leap  glistening  on  the  beach,  — 
Who  that  has  known  the  passion  and  the  pain, 

The  rush  through  heart  and  brain. 
The  joy  so  like  a  pang  his  hand  is  pressed 

Hard  on  his  throbbing  breast, 
When  thou,  whose  smile  is  life  and  bliss  and  fame 

Hast  set  his  pulse  aflame, 
Muse  of  the  lyre  !  can  say  farewell  to  thee  1 

Alas  !  and  must  it  be  1 


EVEN-SOXG.  197 

In  many  a  clime,  in  many  a  stately  tongue, 

The  mighty  bards  have  sung  ; 
To  these  the  immemorial  thrones  belong 

And  purple  robes  of  song  ; 
Yet  the  slight  minstrel  loves  the  slender  tone 

His  lips  may  call  his  own, 
And  finds  the  measure  of  the  verse  more  sweet 

Timed  by  his  pulse's  beat, 
Than  all  the  hymuings  of  the  laurelled  throng. 

Say  not  I  do  him  wrong. 
For  Nature  spoils  her  warblers,  —  them  she  feeds 

In  lotus-growing  meads 
And  pours  them  subtle  draughts  from  haunted  streams 

That  fill  their  souls  with  dreams. 

EuU  well  I  know  the  gracious  mother's  wiles 

And  dear  delusive  smiles  ! 
No  callow  fledgling  of  her  singing  brood 

But  tastes  that  witching  food, 
And  hearing  overhead  the  eagle's  wing. 

And  how  the  thrushes  sing. 
Vents  his  exiguous  chirp,  and  from  his  nest 

Flaps  forth  — we  know  the  rest. 
I  own  the  weakness  of  the  tuneful  kind,  — 

Are  not  all  harpers  blind  ? 


198  EVEN-SONG. 

I  sang  too  early,  must  I  sing  too  late  1 
The  lengthening  shadows  wait 

The  first  pale  stars  of  twilight,  — yet  how  sweet 
The  flattering  whisper's  cheat,  — 

"  Thou  hast  the  fire  no  evening  chill  can  tame. 
Whose  coals  outlast  its  flame  !  " 

Farewell,  ye  carols  of  the  laughing  mom, 

Of  earliest  sunshine  born  ! 
The  sower  flings  the  seed  and  looks  not  back 

Along  its  furrowed  track  ; 
The  reaper  leaves  the  stalks  for  other  hands 

To  gird  with  circling  bands  ; 
The  wind,  earth's  careless  servant,  truant-born, 

Blows  clean  the  beaten  corn 
And  quits  the  thresher's  floor,  and  goes  his  way 

To  sport  with  ocean's  spray ; 
The  headlong-stumbling  rivulet  scrambling  down 

To  wash  the  sea-girt  town, 
Still  babbling  of  the  green  and  billowy  waste 

Whose  salt  he  longs  to  taste, 
Ere  his  warm  wave  its  chilling  clasp  may  feel 

Has  twirled  the  miller's  wheel. 

The  song  has  done  its  task  that  makes  us  bold 
With  secrets  else  untold,  — 


EVEN-SONG.  199 

And  mine  has  run  its  errand ;  through  the  dews 

I  tracked  the  flying  Muse  ; 
The  daughter  of  the  morning  touched  my  lips 

With  roseate  finger-tips ; 
Whether  I  would  or  would  not,  I  must  sing 

With  the  new  choirs  of  spring ; 
Now,  as  I  watch  the  fading  autumn  day 

And  trill  my  softened  lay, 
I  think  of  all  that  listened,  and  of  one 

For  whom  a  brighter  sun 
Dawned  at  high  summer's  noon.     Ah,  comrades  dear, 

Are  not  all  gathered  here  1 
Our  hearts  have  answered.  —  Yes  !  they  hear  our  call : 

AU  gathered  here  !  all !  all ! 


1872. 

THE  SMILINa  LISTENEE. 

Precisely.     I  see  it.     You  all  want  to  say 

That  a  tear  is  too  sad  and  a  laugh  is  too  gay ; 

You  could  stand  a  faint  smile,  you  could  manage  a 

sigh, 
But  you  value  your  ribs,  and  you  don't  want  to  cry. 

And  why  at  our  feast  of  the  clasping  of  hands 
Need  we  turn  on  the  stream  of  our  lachrymal  glands  1 
Though  we  see  the  white  breakers  of  age  on  our  bow. 
Let  us  take  a  good  pull  in  the  jolly-boat  now  ! 

It 's  hard  if  a  fellow  cannot  feel  content 
When  a  banq\iet  like  this  does  n't  cost  him  a  cent, 
When  his  goblet  and  plate  he  may  empty  at  will, 
And  our  kind  Class  Committee  will  settle  the  bill. 


THE  SMILING  LISTENER.  201 

And  here 's  your  old  friend  the  identical  bard 
Who  has  rhymed  and  recited  you  verse  by  the  yard- 
Since  the  days  of  the  empire  of  Andrew  the  First 
Till  you  're  full  to  the  brim  and  feel  ready  to  burst- 
It  's  awful  to  think  of,  —  how  year  after  year 
With  his  piece  in  his  pocket  he  waits  for  you  here  ;- 
No  matter  who  's  missing,  there  always  is  one 
To  lug  out  his  manuscript,  sure  as  a  gun.. 

"  Why  won't  he  stop  writing  1 "  Humanity  cries  v 
The  answer  is  briefly,  "  He  can't  if  he  tries  ; 
He  has  played  with  his  foolish  old  feather  so  long. 
That  the  goose-quill  in  spite  of  him  cackles  in  song." 

You  have  watched  him  with  patience  from  morning  to- 

dusk 
Since  the  tassel  was  bright  o'er  the  green  of  tlie  husk, 
And  now  —  it 's  too  bad  —  it 's  a  pitiful  job  — 
He  has  shelled  the  ripe  ear  till  he  's  come  to  the  cob. 

I  see  one  face  beaming  —  it  listens  so  well 
There  must  be  some  music  yet  left  in  my  shell  — 
The  wine  of  my  soul  is  not  thick  on  the  lees ; 
One  string  is  unbroken,  one  friend  I  can  please  ! 


202  THE  SMILING  LISTENER. 

Dear  comrade,  the  sunshine  of  seasons  gone  by 
Looks  out  from  your  tender  and  tear-moistened  eye, 
A  pharos  of  love  on  an  ice-girdled  coast,  — 
Kind  soul !  —  Don't  you  hear  me  1  —  He  's  deaf  as  a 
post  ! 

Can  it  be  one  of  Nature's  benevolent  tricks 
That  you  grow  hard  of  hearing  as  I  gTow  prolix  1 
And  that  look  of  delight  which  would  angels  beguile 
Is  the  deaf  man's  prolonged  unintelligent  smile  1 

Ah  !  the  ear  may  grow  dull,  and  the  eye  may  wax  dim, 
But  they  still  know  a  classmate  —  they  can't  mistake 

him ; 
There  is  something  to  tell   us,   "  That  's  one  of  our 

band," 
Though  we  gi'oped  in  the  dark  for  a  touch  of  his  hand. 

Well,  Time  with  his  snuffers  is  prowling  about 
And  his  shaky  old  fingers  will  soon  siuiff  us  out ; 
There  's  a  hint  for  us  all  in  each  pendulum  tick, 
For  we  're  low  in  the  tallow  and  long  in  the  wick. 

You  remember  Rossini  —  you  've  been  at  the  play  1 
How  his  overture-endings  keep  crashing  away 


THE  SMILING  LISTENER.  203 

Till  you  think,  "  It 's   all   over  —  it    can't   but   stop 

now  — 
That 's  the  screech  and  the  bang  of  the  final  bow-wow." 

And  you  find  you  're  mistaken ;  there 's  lots  more  to 

come, 
More  banging,  more  screeching  of  fiddle  and  drum. 
Till  when  the  last  ending  is  finished  and  done, 
You  feel  like  a  horse  when  the  winning-post 's  won. 

So  I,  who  have  sung  to  you,  merry  or  sad, 

Since  the  days  when  they  called  me  a  promising  lad. 

Though  I  've  made   you  more  rhymes  than  a  tutor 

could  scan, 
Have  a  few  more  still  left,  like  the  razor-strap  man. 

JSTow  pray  don't  be  frightened  —  I  'm  ready  to  stop 
My  galloping  anapests'  clatter  and  pop  — 
In  fact,  if  you  say  so,  retire  from  to-day 
To  the  garret  I  left,  on  a  poet's  half-pay. 

And  yet  —  I  can't  help  it  —  perhaps  —  who  can  tell  ] 
You  might  miss  the  poor  singer  you  treated  so  well. 
And  confess  you  could  stand  him  five  minutes  or  so, 
"  It  was  so  like  old  times  we  remember,  you  know." 


204  THE  SMILING  LISTENER. 

'T  is  not  that  the  music  can  signify  much, 
But  then  there  are  chords  that  awake  with  a  touch, - 
And  our  hearts  can  find  echoes  of  sorrow  and  joy- 
To  the  winch  of  the  minstrel  who  hails  from  Savoy. 

So  this  hand-organ  tune  that  I  cheerfully  grind 
May  bring  the  old  places  and  faces  to  mind. 
And  seen  in  the  light  of  the  past  we  recall 
The  flowers  that  have  faded  bloom  fairest  of  all ! 


1872. 

OUE  SWEET  SINGER. 


J.    A. 

One  memory  trembles  on  our  lips  : 

It  throbs  in  every  breast ; 
In  tear-dimmed  eyes,  in  mirth's  eclipse, 

The  shadow  stands  confessed. 

Sweet  voice,  whose  carols  cheered  so  long 
Our  manhood's  marching  day, 

"Without  thy  breath  of  heavenly  song, 
How  weary  seems  the  way  ! 

Vain  every  pictured  phrase  to  tell 
Our  sorrowing  hearts'  desire  : 

The  shattered  harp,  the  broken  shell, 
The  silent  unstrung  lyre ; 


206  OUR  SWEET  SINGER. 

For  youth  was  round  us  while  he  sang ; 

It  glowed  in  every  tone  ; 
With  bridal  chimes  the  echoes  rang, 

And  made  the  past  our  own. 

0  blissful  dream  !     Our  nursery  joys 
We  know  must  have  an  end, 

But  love's  and  friendship's  broken  toys 
May  God's  good  angels  mend  ! 

The  cheering  smile,  the  voice  of  mirth 
And  laughter's  gay  surprise 

That  please  the  children  born  of  earth, 
Why  deem  that  Heaven  denies  'i 

Methinks  in  that  refulgent  sphere 
That  knows  not  sun  or  moon, 

An  earth-born  saint  might  long  to  hear 
One  verse  of  "  Bonny  Doon  "  ; 

Or  walking  through  the  streets  of  gold 
In  Heaven's  unclouded  light, 

His  lips  recall  the  song  of  old 
And  hum  "  The  sky  is  bright." 


OUR  SWEET   SINGER.  207 

And  can  we  smile  when  thou  art  dead  1 

Ah,  brothers,  even  so  ! 
The  rose  of  summer  will  be  red, 

In  spite  of  winter's  snow. 

Thou  wouldst  not  leave  us  all  in  gloom 

Because  thy  song  is  still, 
Nor  blight  the  banquet-garland's  bloom 

With  gTief  s  untimely  chill. 

The  sighing  wintry  winds  complain,  — 

The  singing  bird  has  flown,  — 
Hark  !  heard  I  not  that  ringing  strain, 

That  clear  celestial  tone  1 

How  poor  these  pallid  phrases  seem, 

How  weak  this  tinkling  line, 
As  warbles  through  my  waking  dream 

That  angel  voice  of  thine  ! 

Thy  requiem  asks  a  sweeter  lay  ; 

It  falters  on  my  tongue ; 
For  all  we  vainly  strive  to  say, 

Thou  shouldst  thyself  have  sung  ! 


1873. 

*  *  * 

H.  CM.    H.  S.   J.  K.  W. 

The  dirge  is  played,  the  sad-voiced  requiem  sung 
That  faltered  on  the  tongue ; 
On  each  white  urn  where  memory  dwells 
The  wreath  of  rustling  immortelles 
Our  loving  hands  have  hung, 
And  balmiest  leaves  have  strewn  and  tenderest  blossoms 
flung. 

The  birds  that  filled  the  air  with  songs  have  flown, 

The  wintry  blasts  have  blown. 

And  these  for  whom  the  voice  of  spring 

Bade  the  sweet  choirs  their  carols  sing 

Sleep  in  those  chambers  lone 

Where  snows  untrodden  lie,  unheard  the  night-winds 

moan. 


H.   C.  M.      H.   S.     J.  K.   W.  209 

We  clasp  them  all  in  memory,  as  the  vine 

Whose  running  stems  intwine 

The  marble  shaft,  and  steal  around 

The  lowly  stone,  the  nameless  mound  ; 

With  son'owing  hearts  resign 

Our  brothers  true  and  tried,  and  close  our  broken  Hne. 

How  fast  the  lamps  of  life  grow  dim  and  die 

Beneath  our  sunset  sky  ! 

Still  fading,  as  along  our  track 

We  cast  our  saddened  glances  back, 

And  while  we  vainly  sigh 

The  shadowy  day  recedes,  the  stany  night  draws  nigh, 

As  when  from  pier  to  pier  across  the  tide 
With  even  keel  we  glide, 
The  lights  we  left  along  the  shore 
Grow  less  and  less,  while  more,  yet  more 
New  vistas  open  wide 
Of  fair  illumined  streets  and  casements  golden-eyed. 

Each  closing  circle  of  our  sunlit  sphere 

Seems  to  bring  Heaven  more  near  : 
Can  we  not  dream  that  those  we  love 
Are  listening  in  the  world  above 


210  H.   C.   M.      H.   S.     J.  K.   W. 

And  smiling  as  they  hear 
The  voices  known  so  well  of  friends  that  still  are  dear  'i 

Does  all  that  made  us  human  fade  away 
With  this  dissolving  clay  1 
Nay,  rather  deem  the  blessed  isles 
Are  bright  and  gay  with  joyous  smiles, 
That  angels  have  their  play, 
And  saints  that  tire  of  song  may  claim  their  holiday. 

All  else  of  earth  may  perish  ;  love  alone 

Not  Heaven  shall  find  outgrown  ! 
Are  they  not  here,  our  spirit  guests 
With  love  still  throbbing  in  their  breasts  1 
Once  more  let  flowers  be  strown. 
Welcome,  ye  shadowy  forms,  we  count  you  still  our 
own ! 


1873. 

WHAT  I   HAVE  COME  FOE. 

I  HAVE  come  with  my  verses  —  I  think  I  may  claim 
It  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  tried  on  the  same. 
They  were  puckered  in  rhyme,  they  were  wrinkled  m 

wit ; 
But  your  hearts  were  so  large  that  they  made  them  a  fit. 

I  have  come  —  not   to  tease   you  with  more  of  my 

rhyme, 
But  to  feel  as  I  did  in  the  blessed  old  time  ; 
I  want  to  hear  him  with  the  Brobdingnag  laugh  — 
We  count  him  at  least  as  three  men  and  a  half. 

I  have  come  to  meet  judges  so  wise  and  so  grand 
That  I  shake  in  my  shoes  while  they  're  shaking  my 
hand; 


212  WHAT  I  HAVE  COME  FOR. 

And  the  prince  among  merchants  who  put  back  the 

crown 
When  they  tried  to  enthrone  him  the  King  of  the  Town. 

I  have  come  to  see  George  —  Yes,  I  think  there  are  four, 
If  they  all  were  like  these  I  could  wish  there  were  more. 
I  have  come  to  see  one  whom  we  used  to  call  "Jim," 
I  want  to  see  —  0,  don't  I  want  to  see  him  1 

I  have  come  to  grow  young  —  on  my  word  I  declare 
I  have  thought  I  detected  a  change  in  my  hair  ! 
One  hour  with  "  The  Boys  "  will  restore  it  to  brown  — 
And  a  wrinkle  or  two  I  expect  to  rub  down. 

Yes,  that 's  what  I  've  come  for,  as  all  of  us  come  ; 
When  I  meet  the  dear  Boys  I  could  wish  I  were  dumb. 
You  asked  me,  you  know,  but  it 's  spoiling  the  fun ; 
I  have  told  what  I  came  for ;  my  ditty  is  done. 


1874. 

OUR  BANKER. 

Old  Time,  in  whose  bank  we  deposit  our  notes, 
Is  a  miser  who  always  wants  guineas  for  groats  ; 
He  keeps  all  his  customers  still  in  arrears 
By  lending  them  minutes  and  charging  them  years. 

The  twelvemonth  rolls  round  and  we  never  forget 
On  the  counter  before  us  to  pay  him  our  debt. 
We  reckon  the  marks  he  has  chalked  on  the  door, 
Pay  up  and  shake  hands  and  begin  a  new  score. 

How  long  he  will  lend  us,  how  much  we  may  owe, 
No  angel  will  tell  us,  no  mortal  may  know. 
At  fivescore,  at  fourscore,  at  threescore  and  ten. 
He  may  close  the  account  with  a  stroke  of  his  pen. 


214  OUR  BANKER. 

This  only  we  know,  —  amid  sorrows  and  joys 

Old  Time  has  been  easy  and  kind  with  "  The  Boys." 

Though  he  must  have  and  will  have  and  does  have  his 

pay, 

We  have  found  him  good-natured  enough  in  his  way. 

He  never  forgets  us,  as  others  will  do,  — 
I  am  sure  he  knows  me,  and  I  think  he  knows  you, 
For  I  see  on  your  foreheads  a  mark  that  he  lends 
As  a  sign  he  remembers  to  visit  his  friends. 

In  the  shape  of  a  classmate  (a  wig  on  his  crown,  — 
His  day-book  and  ledger  laid  carefully  down) 
He  has  welcomed  us  yearly,  a  glass  in  his  hand, 
And  pledged  the  good  health  of  our  brotherly  band. 

He  's  a  thief,  we  must  own,  but  how  many  there  be 

That  rob  us  less  gently  and  fairly  than  he  : 

He  has  stripped  the  green  leaves  that  were  over  us 

all, 
But  they  let  in  the  sunshine  as  fast  as  they  fall. 

Young  beauties  may  ravish  the  world  with  a  glance 
As  they  languish  in  song,  as  they  float  in  the  dance,  — 


OUR  BANKER.  215 

They  are  grandmothers  now  we  remember  as  girls, 
And  the  comely  white  cap   takes  the  place  of  the 
curls. 

But  the  sighing  and  moaning  and  groaning  are  o'er, 
We  are  pining  and  moping  and  sleepless  no  more, 
And  the  hearts  that  were  thumping  like  ships  on  the 

rocks 
Beat  as  quiet  and  steady  as  meeting-house  clocks. 

The  trump  of  ambition,  loud  sounding  and  shrill, 
May  blow  its  long  blast,  but  the  echoes  are  still. 
The  spring-tides  are  past,  but  no  billow  may  reach 
The  spoils  they  have  landed  far  up  on  the  beach. 

We  see  that  Time  robs  us,  we  know  that  he  cheats. 
But  we  still  find  a  charm  in  his  pleasant  deceits, 
While  he  leaves  the  remembrance  of  all  that  was 

best. 
Love,  friendship,  and  hope,  and  the  promise  of  rest. 

Sweet  shadows  of  twilight !  how  calm  their  repose, 
While  the  dewdrops  fall  soft  in  the  breast  of  the  rose  ! 
How  blest  to  the  toiler  his  hour  of  release 
When  the  vesper  is  heard  with  its  whisper  of  peace ! 


216  OUR  BANKER. 

Then  here  's  to  the  wrinkled  old  miser,  our  friend  ; 
May  he  send  us  his  bills  to  the  century's  end, 
And  lend  us  the  moments  no  sorrow  aUoys, 
Till  he  squares  his  account  with  the  last  of  "  The 
Boys." 


THE   END. 


Cambridge :  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


